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SHI 



" The Knight and the Ladye fair are met. 
And under the hawthorn's boughs are set." 

Canto ii. 28 



The Poetical Works 



SIR WALTER SCOTT 



COMPLETE EDITION 



TOitlj KUuatrations 



By GARRETT, SCHELL, TAYLOR, WAUD 

AND OTHER ARTISTS 



■ IVIAY191888'4- / 




NEW YORK 
THOMAS Y. CROW ELL & CO. 

13 AsTOR Place 



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Copyright by 
Thomas Y. Crowell & Co. 

1884 AND 1888 







1 




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X 


























PRESSWORK BY BERWICK & SMITH, BOSTON. 



V U 







INTRODUCTION. 



The present Edition of Scott has been compiled from reliable authorities, and includes the 
whole of his Poems and Dramas. 

Scott's checkered story is as familiar as his works in almost every British household; never- 
theless, whenever the bequest of his genius is presented to us in a new form, a few memorial 
words seem due to him who has given so much delight. 

Walter Scott, the son of Walter and Anne Scott, was born at Edinburgh on the isth of 
August, 1771. He was of good family, being descended from the Scotts of Harden (of the 
noble race of Buccleuch), and was by profession a lawyer, being called to the Scottish Bar in 
1792. Literature, however, became his real profession. Two translations from the German, 
and some contributions to Lewis's " Tales ol Wonder, " were his first literary productions. 
These, however, were but the preludes to the future " Lay." "The Minstrelsy of the Scot- 
tish Border " followed ; but in 1805 the full swell of the " Harp of the North " was first heard 
in the " Lay of the Last Minstrel." This poem was followed in quick succession by " Mar- 
mion, " "The Lady of the Lake," etc. 

The successful rivalry of Byron, however, turned the poet's thoughts towards an even more 
congenial development of his genius, and, in 1S14, he gave the world the first of those wonder- 
ful novels, which at once placed him near to the throne of Shakespeare himself. 

Fortune showered her favors both on the Poet and Novelist. He was created a Baronet, 
made a large fortune, and lived in a sort of fairy-tale prosperity, amidst the scenes of his earliest 
fancies and affections. 

This prosperity, however, proved evanescent. Scott was a partner in the publishing firm 
of Constable and Ballantyne, and by its failure, in 1826, he lost everything. Nobly and 
bravely, however, did the old Author struggle to redeem his honest fame, and pay off his lia- 
bilities, and so well were his labors rewarded that, in 1830, his creditors presented him with 
his library, paintings, furniture, plate, and linen, in acknowledgment of his honorable conduct. 
In the midst of his pecuniary difficulties, Scott's wife, a French lady by birth, — Mdlle. Char- 
pentier, — died. 

Four years afterwards he was seized with apoplexy. His physicians ordered him abroad, 
and a ship of war — the Barham — placed at his disposal by the Government, conveyed him 
to Malta and Naples But the change of climate and scene proved of no avail, and yearning 
for his native land, the Poet insisted on returning to Abbotsford. 

His last wish was fulfilled. He gazed once more on his home, and surrounded by his chil- 
dren, he fell gently asleep on a golden September afternoon ; lulled to that last peaceful slumber 
by the ripple of his beloved Tweed, which was audible through the open windows of his chamber. 

Life "chimed to evensong " early for him. He died at the age of 61, leaving four children, 
all of whom are since dead ; but Scott's name can never perish while the language he has en- 
riched remains to preserve the works which are the Poet's true representatives. 

(iii) 




J L 




CONTENTS. 



Page. 
The Lay OF THE Last Minstrel . . 7 

Makmion .... 42 

The Lady of the Lake 107 

The Vision of Don Roderick . . .161 

RoKEBY 177 

The Bridal of Triermain ; or, the 

Vai.e of St. John 230 

The Lord of the Isles 256 

The Field of Waterloo 3°4 

Harold the Dauntless 310 

Contributions to Minstrelsy of the 
Scottish Border: — 

Thomas the Rhymer 337 

Glenfinlas ; or. Lord Ronald's Coronach 342 

The Eve of St. John 346 

Cadyow Castle -349 

The Gray Brother 352 

Ballads, Translated, or Imitated, 
FROM the German, etc.: — 

William and Helen 35s 

The Wild Huntsman 359 

The Fire- King 361 

Frederick and Alice 364 

The Battle of Sempach 365 

The Noble Moringer . . . . . .368 

The Erl-Kmg .371 

Miscellaneous Poems: — 

Juvenile Lines 372 

On a Thunder-storm 373 

On the Setting Sun 373 

The Violet ... 373 

To a Lady. With Flowers from a Ro- 
man Wall 373 

War-song of the Edinburgh Light Dra- 
goons ■ . • 373 

The Bard's Incantation ...... 374 

Helvellyn 374 

The Dying Bard .... ... 375 

The Norman Horse-shoe 376 

The Maid of I'oro 376 

The Palmer 377 

The Maid of Neid|)ath 377 

Wandering Willie 378 

Hunting Sons 37g 

Health to Lord Melville 379 

Epitaph designed for a Monument in 

Litchfield Cathedral 380 

The Resolve 380 

Prolo;;ue to Miss BaiUie's Play of the 

Family Legend 381 

The Poacher ... ..... 382 



Pace 
Miscellaneous Poems, continued: — 

Song 384 

The Bold Dragoon 384 

On the Massacre of Glencoe . . . 385 

For a' that an' a' that 386 

Song lor the Anniversary Meeting of 

the Pitt Club of Scotland .... 387 
Lines addressed to Ranald Macdonald, 

Esq., of Staffa 3S7 

Pharos Loquitur 388 

Letter in verse to the Duke of Buccleuch 388 

Froin Waverley : 

Bridal Sung 390 

Davie t^ellatley's Songs 391 

St. Swithin's Chair 392 

Flora Maclvor's Song 392 

To an Oak Tree 393 

Farewell to Mackenzie, High Chief of 

Kintail 394 

War-Song of Lachlan, High Chief of 

Maclean 394 

Saint Cloud 394 

The Dance of Death 39s 

Romance of Dunois 397 

The Troubadour 397 

Soug from the French 397 

Song on the Lilting of the Banner of the 

House of Buccleuch 398 

Lullaby of an Infant C hief .... 398 

From Guy Mannerinp : 

" I'wist ye. Twine ye " 399 

The Dying Gypsy's Dirge . ... 399 

The Return 10 Ulster 399 

Jock of Hazeldean 400 

Pibioch I if Donald Dhu . . . - . 400 

Nora's Vow 401 

Mac<;regor"s Gathering 401 

Verses to 'he Czar Alexander .... 402 

From the A niiqunry : 

Time 402 

Elspeth's Ballad 40^ 

Mottoes ... 403 

Mottc from tke Black Dwarf , . . 405 

From Old Mortality : 

Major Bellenden's Song 405 

Verses found in Bothwcll's Pocket-book 406 

Mottoes ... 406 

The Search after Happiness ... 406 
The Sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill . .411 
The Monks of Bangor's March . . 412 

Motiot's from Roh Rov ■ ... 412 

Mr. Keinble's F'arwwell Address . . 413 






VI 




CONTENTS. 



Page. 
Miscellaneous; Poems, cotttinued: — 

Lines written lor Miss Smith . . . 414 
Letter lo his Grace, the Duke of Buc- 
cleuch 414 

From Rob Roy .' 
To the Memory of Edward the Black 

Prince 414 

Translation from Ariosto 415 

Epilogue to the Appeal 415 

Mackrmimon's Lament 416 

Donald Caird's come again .... 416 
Epitaph on Mrs. Erskii e . - . . . 417 

From the Heart of Mid-Lothian : 

Madge Wildfire's Songs 417 

From the Bride of Lamtnermoor : 

Lucy Ashton's Song •. 418 

Norman the Eoresier's Song .... 419 
Mottoes 419 

From the Legend of Montrose: 

Annot Lyie's Songs 419 

The Orphan Maid 420 

From Ivanhoe : 

The Crusader's Return 420 

The Barefooted Friar 420 

Saxon War-Song 421 

Rebecca's Hymn 422 

The Black Knight's Song 422 

Duet between the Black Knight and 

Wamba 422 

Funeral Hymn .... .... 423 

Mottoes . . 423 

From the Afotinsiery : 

Songs of the White Lady of Avenel . 424 
Songs in Halbert's Second Interview 
with the White Lady of Avenel . . 426 

Border Ballad 428 

Mottoes 428 

Mottoes from the Abbot 430 

From Kenihvorth : 

Goldthred's Song 431 

Mottoes 432 

From the Pirate : 

The Song of the Tempest 432 

Claud Halcro's Song 433 

The Song of Harold Harfager . . . 434 

Song of the Mermaids and Mermen . 434 

Noma's Song 434 

Claud Halcro and Noma 43^ 

Song of the Zetland Fisherman . . . 436 

Cleveland's Songs 436 

Claud Halcro's Verses 437 

Noma's Incantations 437 

Mottoes 438 

On Ettrick Forest's Mountains dun . 439 

P'arewel! to the Muse 440 

The Maid of Isla 440 



Page. 

Miscellaneous Poems, continued: — 

Carle, now the King's come .... 440 
lAonot^Uo-m the Fortunes of Nigel . 442 
Moltves (rom Feveril of t/ie Peak . . 443 

From Quentin Diirward: 

Song— County Guy 444 

Mottoes 444 

Frotn St. Ronan's Well: 

Epilogue 445 

Mottoes 445 

Song from Redganntiet 447 

Lines addressed to Monsieur Alexandre 447 
The Death of Keeldar 447 

From the Betrothed: 

Song — Soldier, Wake 448 

Song — The Truth of Woman . . . 449 
Mottoes 449 

From the Talisman : 

Ahriman 449 

Song of Blondel — The Bloody Vest . 450 

Mottoes 452 

Inscription for the Monument of the 

Rev. G. Scott 452 

The Foray 452 

From Woodstock: 

Mottoes 453 

Glee lor King Charles 454 

One Hour with thee 454 

From the Fair Maid of Perth '. 

Motto , 454 

The Lay of Poor Louise 454 

Chant over the Dead 455 

Yes, thou may'st 'Sigh 455 

Oh, bold and true 455 

From A niie of Geierstein : 

Mottoes 455 

Song of the Judges of the Secret Tribu- 
nal 456 

Mottoes from Count Robert of Paris . 456 

Mott<oes from Castle Dangerous . , , 457 

Fragments, of very early date: — 

Botluvell Castle 458 

The Shepherd's Tale 458 

Cheviot 460 

The Reiver's Wedding 460 

Dramatic Pieces: — 

Hai.idon Hill : A Dramatic Sketch 

from Scottish History 462 

Macduff's Cross 483 

AuCHiNDRANE, or the Ayrshire Tragedy 489 
The Doom of Devorgoil .... 523 
The House OF Aspen 561 

Appendix: — Notes rSy 








THE 



LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL 

A POEM IN SL\ CANTOS. 

Dum relego, scripsisse pudet; quia plurima cerno, 
Me quoque, qui feci judice, digna lini. 



TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE 

CHARLES, EARL OF DALKEITH, 

THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED BY 

THE AUTHOR. 



PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 

The Poem, noxv offered to the Public, is i}itended to illustrate the customs and manners 
which anciently prevailed on the Borders of England and Scotland. The inhabitants, 
living in a state partly pastoral and partly warlike, and covibininff habits of constant 
depredation with the influence of a rude spirit of chivalry, zvere often engaged in sceties 
highly susceptible of poetical ornament. As the description of scenery and manners 
•was more the object of the Author than a combined and regular narrative, the plan of the 
ancient Metrical Romance zvas adopted, which allotvs greater latitude, in this raped, than 
■would be consistent zuith the dignity of a regular Poem. The same model offered other 
facilities, as it permits an occasional alteration of measure, which, in some degree, author- 
izes the change of rhythm in the text. The machinery, also adopted from popular belief, 
zvould have seemed puerile in a Poem which did not partake of the rudeness of the old 
Ballad, or Metrical Romance. 

For these reasons, the Poem zvas put into the mouth of an ancient Minstrel, the last oj 
the race, who, as he is supposed to have survived the Revolution, might have caught some- 
zvhat of the refinement of modern poetry, zvithout losing the simplicity of his original 
model. Tlie date of the Tale itself is about the middle of the sixteenth century, when most 
of the personages actually flourished. The time occupied by the action is Three Nights 
and Three Days. 





SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



INTRODUCTION TO EDITION 1830. 

A Poem of nearly tliirty years' standing may be supposed hardly to need an Introduction, 
since, witlioiit one, it has been able to keep itself atloat through the best part of a generation. 
Nevertheless, as, in the edition of tlie Waverley Novels now in course of publication [1S30J, I 
have imposed on myselt the task of saying somethmg concerning the purpose and history of 
each, in their turn, I am desirous that the Poems lor which I first received some marks of the 
public favor, should also be accompanied with such scraps of their literary history as may be 
supposed to carry interest along with them. Even if I should be mistaken in thinking that 
the secret history of what was once so popular, may still attract public attention and curiosity, 
it seems to me not without its use to record the manner and circumstances under which the 
present, and other Poems on the same plan, attained tor a season an extensive reputation. 

I must resume the story of my literary labors at the period at which I broke off in the Essay 
on the Imitation of Popular Poetry, when I had enjoyed the first gleam of public favor, by the 
success of the first edition of the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border. The second edition of that 
work, published in 1803, proved, in the language of the trade, rather a heavy concern. The 
demand in Scotland had been supplied by the first edition, and the curiosity of the English was 
not much awakened by joems in the rude garb of antiquity, accompanied with notes referring 
to the obscure feuds of barbarous clans, of whose very names civilized history was ignorant. 
It was, on the whole, one of those books which are more praised than they are read. 

At this time I stood personally in a different position from that which I occupied when I 
first dipt my desperate pen in ink for other purposes than those of my profession. In 1796, 
when I first published the Translations from Burger, I was an insulated individual, with only 
my own wants to provide for, and having, in a great measure, my own inclinations alone to 
consult. In 1803, when the second edition of the Minstrelsy appeared, I had arrived at a 
period of life when men, however thoughtless, encounter duties and circumstances which press 
consideration and plans of life upon the most careless minds. I had been for some time mar- 
ried — was the father of a rising family — and, though fully enabled to meet the consequent 
demands upon me, it was mv duty and desire to place myself in a situation which would enable 
me to make honorable provision against the various contingencies of life. 

It may be readily supposed that the attempts which I had made in literature had been un- 
favorable to my success at the Bar. The goddess Themis is at Edinburgh, and I suppose every- 
where else, of a peculiarly jealous disposition. She will not readily consent to share her 
authority, and sternly demands from her votaries, not only that real duty be carefully attended 
to and discharged, but that a certain air of business shall be observed even in the midst of total 
idleness. It is prudent, it not absolutely necessary, in a young barrister, to appear completely 
engrossed by his protession ; however destitute of employment he may in reality be, he ought to 
preserve, if possible, the appearance of full occupation. He should, therefore, seem perpetu- 
ally engaged among his law papers, dusting them, as it were ; and, as Ovid advises the fair, 

" Si nullus erit pulvis, tamen txcute nullum.'' 

Perhaps such extremity of attention is more especially required, considering the great number 
of counsellors who are called to the Bar, and how very small a proportion of them are finally 
disposed, or find encouragement, to follow the law as a profession. Hence the number of 
deserters is so great, that the least lingering look behind occasions a young novice to be set 
down as one of the intending fugitives. Certain it is, that the Scottish Themis was at this time 
peculiarly jealous of any flirtation with the Muses, on the part of those who had ranged them- 
selves under her banners. This was probably owing to her consciousness of the superior 
attractions ot her rivals. Of late, however, she has relaxed in some instances in this particular 
— an eminent example of which has been shown in the case ot my friend, Mr. Jeffrey, who, 
alter long conducting one of the most influential literary periodicals of the age with unquestion- 
able ability, has been, by the general consent of his brethren, recently elected to be their Dean 
of Faculty, or President — being the highest acknowledgment of his professional talents which 
they had it in their power to offer. But this is an incident much beyond the ideas of a period 
ot thirty years' distance, when a barrister who really possessed any turn for lighter literature, 
was at as much pains to conceal it as if it had in reality been something to be ashamed of; 
and I could mention more than one instance in which literature and society have suffered much 
loss, that jurisprudence might be enriched. 

Such, however, was not my case ; for the reader will not wonder that my open interference 
with niatters of light literature diminished my employment in the weightier matters of the law. 
Nor did the solicitors, upon whose choice the counsel takes rank in his profession, do me less 
than justice, by regarding others among my contemporaries as fitter to discharge the duty due 
to their clients, than a young man who was taken up with running after ballads, whether Teu- 
tonic or National. My profession and I, therefore, came to stand nearly upon the footing which 






THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



honest Slender consoled himself on having established with Mistress Anne Page: " Thert 
was no gre.il love between us at the beginning, and it pleased Heaven to decrease it on farther 
acquaintance." I became sensible that the time was come when I must either buckle myself 
resolutely to the " toil by day, the lamp by night," renouncing all the Delilalis of my imagi- 
nation, or bid adieu to the profession of the law, and hold another course. 

I confess my own inclination revolted from the more severe choice, which might have been 
deemed by many the wiser alternative. As my transgressions had been numerous, my repent- 
ance must have been signalized by unusual sacrifices. I ought to have mentioned, that smce 
my fourteenth or fifteenth year, my health, originally delicate, had become extremely robust. 
From infancy 1 had labor 3d under the infirmity of a severe lameness, but, as I believe is usually 
the case with men of spirit who suffer under personal inconveniences of this nature, I had, 
since the improvement of my healtli. in defiance of ihis incapacitating circumstance distinguished 
myself by the endurance of toil on foot or horseback, having often walked thirty miles a day, 
and rode upwards of a hundred, without resting. In this manner 1 made many pleasant jour- 
neys through parts of the country then not very accessible, gaining more amusement and 
instruction than I have been able to acquire since I have travelled in a more commodious 
manner. I practised most svlvan sports also, with some success, and witli great delight. But 
these pleasures must have been all resigned, or used with great moderation, had 1 determined 
to regain my station at the Bar. It was even doubtful whether I could, with perfect character 
as a furiscoiisult, retain a situation in a volunteer corps of cavalry, which ! then held. The 
threats of invasion were at this time instant and menacing ; the call by Britain on her children 
was universal, and was answered by some, who, like myself, consulted rather their desire than 
their ability to bear arms. My services, however, were found useful in assisting to maintain 
the discipline of the corps, being the point on whicli their constitution rendered them most 
amenable to military criticism. In other respects, the squadron was a fine one, consisting 
chiefly of handsome men, well mounted and armed at their own expense. My attention to the 
corps took up a good deal of time : and while it occupied many of the happiest hours of my 
life, it furnished 'an additional reason for my reluctance again to encounter the severe course of 
study indispensable to success in the juridical profession. _ _ 

On the other hand, my father, whose, feelings might have been hurt by my quitting the Bar, 
had been for two or three years dead, so that I had no control to thwart my own inclination; 
and my income being equal to all the comforts, and some of the elegancies, of life, I was not 
pressed to an irksome labor by necessity, that most powerful of motives ; consequently, I was 
the more easily seduced to choose the employment which was most agreeable tome. 'Ihis was 
yet the easier, that m iSoo I had obtained the preferment of Sheriff of Selkirkshire, about 
^300 a year in value, and which v\as the more agreeable to me, as in that country, I had 
several friends and relations. But I did not abandon the profession to which I had been edu- 
cated without certain prudential resolutions, which, at the risk of some egotism. I will here 
mention ; not without the hope that they may be useful to young persons who may stand in 
circumstances similar to those in which I then stood. 

In the first place, upon considering the lives and fortunes of persons who had given them- 
selves up to literature, or to the task of pleasing the public, it seemed to me, that the circum 
stances which chietly affected their happiness and character, were those from which Horace has 
bestowed upon authors the epithet of the Irritable Race. It requires no depth of philosophic 
reflection to perceive, that the petty warfare of Pope with the Dunces of his ])eriod could not 
have been carried on without his suffering the most acute torture, such as a man must endure 
from mosquitoes, by whose stings he suffers agony, although he can criish them in his grasp 
by myriads. Nor is it necessary to call to memory the many humiliating instances in which 
men of the greatest genius have, to avenge some pitiful quarrel, made themselves ridiculous 
during their lives, to become the still more degraded objects of pity to future times. 

Upon the whole, as I had no pretension to the genius of the distinguished persons who 
had fallen into such errors, I concluded there could be no occasion for imitating tliem in their 
mistakes, or what I considered as such ; and, in adopting literary pursuits as the principal 
occupation of my future life, I resolved, if possible, to avoid those weaknesses of temper which 
seemed to have most easily beset my more celebrated predecessors. 

With this view, it was mv first resolution 10 keep as far as was in my power abreast of 
society, continuing to maintain my place in general company, without yielding to the very natu- 
ral temptation of narrowing myself to what is called literary society. By doing so, I imagined 
I should escape the besetting sin of listening to language, which, trom one motive or other, is 
apt to ascribe a \ ;ry undue degree of consequence to literary pursuits, as if they were, indeed, 
the business, rather than the amusement, of life. The opposite course can only be compared to 
the injudicious conduct of one who pampers himself with cordial and luscious draughts, until 
he is unable to endure wholesome bitters. Like Gil Bias, therefore, I resolved to stick by the 
society of my f^w»;«2.s, instead of seeking that of a more literary cast, and to maintain mv 
general interest in what was going on around me, reserving the man of letters for the desk and 
the library. 




^s 





SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



My second resolution was a corollary from the first. I determined that, without shutting 
my ears to the voice of true criticism, T would pay no regard to that which aisumes the form 
of sat're. I therefore resolved to arm myself with that triple brass of Horace, of which those 
ofmy profession are seldom held deficient, against all the lovins; warfare of satire, parody, 
and sarcasm ; to laugh if the jest was a good one, or, if otherwise, to let it hum and buzz itself 
t.0 sleep. 

It is to the observance of these rules (according to my best belief) that, after a life of thirty 
years engaged in literary labors of various kinds, I attribute my never having been entangled 
in any literary quarrel or controversy ; and, which is a still more pleasing result, that I have 
been distinguished by the personal friendship of my most approved contemporaries of all 
parties. 

I adopted at the same time another resolution, on which it may doubtless be remarked, that 
it was well for me that I had it in my power to do so, and that, therefore, it is a line of conduct 
wh:ch, depending upon accident, can be less generally applicable in other cases. Yet I fail not 
to record this part of my plan, convinced that, though it may not be in every one's power to 
adopt exactly die same resolution, he may nevertheless, by his own exertions, in some shape 
or other, attain the object on which it was founded, namely, to secure the means of subsistence 
without relying exclusively on literary talents. In this respect I determined that literature 
should be my staff, but not my crutch, and that the profits of my literary labor, however con- 
venient otherwise, should not, if I could help it, become necessary to my ordinary expenses. 
With this purpose I resolved, if the interest of my friends could so far favor me, to retire upon 
any of the respectable offices of the law, in which persons of that profession are glad to take 
refuge when they feel themselves, or are judged by others, incompetent to aspire to its higher 
honors. Upon such a post an author might hope to retreat, without any perceptible alteration 
of circumstances, whenever the time should arrive that the public grew weary of his endeavors 
to please, or he himself should tire of the pen. At this period of my life, I possessed so many 
friends capable of assisting me in this object of ambition, that I could hardly overrate my own 
prospects of obtaining the preferment to which I limited my wishes ; and, in fact, I obtained 
in no long period the reversion of a situation which completely met them. 

Thus far all was well, and the author h.nd been guilty, perhaps, of no great imprudence, when 
he relinquished his forensic practice with the hope of making some figure in the field of litera- 
ture. But an established character with the [niblic, in my new capacity, still remained to be 
acquired. I have noticed that the translations from Burger had been unsuccessful, nor had 
the original poetry which appeared under the auspices of Mr. Lewis, in the "Tales of Won- 
der," in any great degree raised my reputation. It is true, I had private friends disposed to 
second me in my efforts to obtain popularity. But I was sportsman enough to know, that if 
the greyhound does not run well, the halloos of his patrons will obtain nothing for him. 

Neither was I ignorant that the practice of ballad-writing was for the present out of fashion, 
and that any attempt to revive it, or to found a poetical character upon it, would certainly fail 
of success. The ballad measure itself, which was once listened to as to an enchanting melody, 
had become hackneyed and sickening, from its being the accompaniment of every grinding 
hand-organ; and besides, a long work in quatrains, whether those of the common ballad, or 
such as are termed elegiac, has an effect upon the mind like that of the bed ot Procrustes upon 
the human body ; for, as it must be both awkward and difficult to carry on a long sentence from 
one stanza to another, it follows that the meaning of each period must be comprehended within 
four lines, and equally so that it must be extended so as to fill that space. The alternate dila- 
tion and contraction thus rendered necessary is singularly unfavorable to narrative composi- 
tion ; and the " Gondibert " of Sir William D'Avenant. though containing many striking pas- 
sages, has never become popular, owing chiefly to its being told in this species of elegiac verse. 

In the dilemma occasioned by this objection, the idea occurred to the author of using the 
measured short line, which forms the structure of so much minstrel poetry, that it may be prop- 
erly termed the Romantic stanza by way of distinction, and which appears so natural to our 
language, that the very best of our poets have not been able to protract it into the verse properly 
called Heroic, without the use of epithets which are, to say the least, unnecessary. But, on the 
other hand, the extreme facility of the short couplet, which seems congenial to our language, 
and was, doubtless, for that reason so popular with our old minstrels, is, for the same reason, 
apt to prove a snare to the composer who uses it in more modern days, by encouraging him m 
a habit of slovenly composition. The necessity of occasional pauses often forces the young 
poet to pay more attention to sense, as the boy's kite rises highest when the train is loaded by 
a due counterpoise. The author was, therefore, intimidated by what Byron calls the "fatal 
facility " of the octo-syllabic verse, which was otherwise better adapted to his purpose of imi- 
tating the more ancient poetry. 

I was not less at a loss for a subject which might admit of being treated with the simplicity 
and wildness of the ancient ballad. But accident dictated both a theme and measure, which 
decided the subject, as well as the structure of the poem. 

The lovely young Countess of Dalkeith, afterwards Harriet, Duchess of Buccleuch. had come 





THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



to the land of her husband with the desire ot" making herself acquainted with its traditions ana 
customs as well as its manners and history. All -vhn remember this lady will agree that the 
intellectual character of her extreme beauty, the amenity and courtesy ot her manners, the 
soundness of her understanding;, and her unbounded benevolence, gave more the idea of an an- 
eehc visitant than of a being belonging to this nether world ; and such a thought was but too 
consistent with the short space she was permitted to tarry among us. Of course, where all made 
,c a pride and pleasure to gratifv her wishes, she soon heard enough ot Border lore ; among 
others an aged gentleman of property,* near Langholm, communicated to her ladyship the 
storv of Gilpin Horner, a tradition in which the narrator, and many more ot that country, were 
firm' believers The young Countess, much delighted with the legend, and the gravity and lull 
confidence with which it was told, enjoined on me as a task to compose a ballad on the subject. 
Of course, to hear was to obey ; and thus the goblin story, objected to by several critics as an 
excrescence upon the poem, was, in fact, the occasion tjt its being written. 

A chance similar to that which dictated the subject, gave me also the hint of a new mode ot 
treatin" it We had at that time the lease of a pleasant cottage, near Lasswade, on the roman- 
tic banks of the Esk, to which we escaped when the vacations of the Court permitted me so 
much leisure. Here I had the pleasure to receive a visit from Mr. Stoddart (now Sir John 
Ctoddart, ludge-Advocate at Malta), who was at that time collecting the particulars which he 
afterwards embodied in his Remarks on Local Scenery in Scotland. I was of some use to hiiri 
in orocurin- the information which he desired, and guiding him to the scenes which he wished 
to see In^eturn, he made me better acquainted than I had hitherto been with the poetic 
effusions which have since made the lakes of Westmoreland, and the authors by whom they 
have been sung, so famous wherever the English tongue is spoken. 

I was already acquainted with the " Joan of Arc," the 1 halaba,' and the Metrical Bal- 
lads" of Mr. Southey, which had found their way to Scotland, and were generally admired. 
But Mr. Stoddart, who had the advantage of personal friendship with the authors, and who 
possessed a strong memory, with an excellent taste, was able to repeat to me many Ong speci- 
mens of their poetry, which had not yet appeared in print. Amongst others, was the striking 
fraoment called Christabel, by Mr. Coleridge, which, from the singularly irregular structure of 
the stanzas, and the liberty which it allowed the author to adapt the sound to the sense, seemed 
to be exactly suited to such an extravaganza as I meditated on the subject of Oilpin H'"'"er. 
As applied to comic and humorous poetry, this mescolanza of measures had been already used 
oy Anthony Hall. Anstey, Dr. Wolcott, and others; but it was in Christabel that I first tound 
it used in serious poetry, and it is to Mr. Coleridge that I am bound to make the acknowledg- 
ment due from the pupil to his master. I observe that Lord Byron, m noticing my obligations 
to Mr. Coleridge, which I have been always most ready to acknowledge, expressed, or was 
understood to express, a hope that I did not write an unfriendly review on Mr. Coleridge s 
productions. On this subject I have only to say, that I do not even know the review which is 
alluded to; and were I ever to take the unbecoming freedom of censuring a man ot Mr. Cole- 
ridge's extraordinary tslents, it would be on account of the caprice and indolence with which 
he has thrown from'him, as if in mere wantonness, those unfinished scraps of poetry, wbijh, 
like the Torso of antiquity, defy the skill of his poetical brethren to complete them. The 
charming fragments which the author abandons to their fate are surely too valuable to be 
treated like the proofs of careless engravers, the sweepings of whose studios often make the 
fortune of some painstaking collector. ■ , j • u 

I did not immediately proceed upon my projected labor, though I was now furnished with a 
subject, and with a structure of verse which might have the effect of novelty to the public ear 
and afford the author an opportunity of varying his measure with the variations ot a romantic 
theme. On the contrary, it was, to the best of my recollection, more than a year after Mr. 
Stoddart's visit, that, by way of experiment, I composed the first two or three stanzas of '" I he 
Lay of the Last Mmstrel. " 1 was shortly afterwards visited by two intimate friends, one ot 
whom still survives. They were men whose talents might have raised them to the highest sta- 
tion in literature, had they not preferred exerting them in their own profession of the law, in 
which they attained equal preferment. I was in the habit of consulting them on my attempts at 
composition, having equal confidence in their sound taste and friendly sincerity, f In this speci- 

*This was Mr. Beattie of Mickledale, a man then considerably upwards of eighty, of a 
shrewd and sarcastic temper, which he did not at all times suppress, as the following anecdote 
will show: A worthv clergyman, now deceased, with better good-will than tact, was endeavor- 
ing to push the senior forward in his recollection of Border ballads and legends, by expressing 
reiterated surprise at his wonderful memory. " No, sir," said old Mickledale ; ' my mernory 
is good for little, for it cannot retain what ought to be preserved I can remember all these 
stories about the auld riding days, which are of no earthly importance: but were you, reverend 
sir, to repeat your best sermon in this drawing-room, I could not tell you half an hour after- 
wards what you had been speaking about." ^ , , 

t One of these, William Erskine, Esq. (Lord Kiniiedder), I have often had occasion to 






SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



men I had, in the phrase of the Highland servant, packed all that was my own at least, for 1 
had also included a line of invocation, a little softened, from Coleridge — 

"Mary, mother, shield us well." 
As neithf;r of my friends said much to me on the subject of the stanzas I showed them before 
their departure, I had no doubt that their disgust had been greater than their good nature chose 
to express. Looking upon them, therefore, as a failure, I threw the manuscript into the fire, 
and thought as little more as I could of the matter. Some time afterwards I met one of my two 
counsellors, who inquired, with considerable appearance of interest, about the progress of the 
romance I had commenced, and was greatly surprised at learning its fate. He confessed that 
neither he nor our mutual friend had been at first able to give a precise opinion on a poem so 
much out of the common road ; but that as they walked home together to the city, they had 
talked much on the subject, and the result was an earnest desire that I would proceed with the 
composition. He also added, that some sort of prologue might be necessary, to place the mind 
of the hearers in the situation to understand and enjoy the poem, and recommended the adop- 
tion of such quaint mottoes as Spenser has used to announce the contents of the chapters of 
the Faery Queen, such as — 

" Babe's bloody hands may not be cleansed. 
The face of golden Mean: 
Her sisters two, Extremities, 
Strive her to banish clean." 

I entirely agree with my friendly critic in the necessity of having some sort of pitch-pipe which 
might make readers aware of the object, or rather the tone, of the publication. But 1 doubted 
whether, in assuming the oracular style of Spenser's moUoes, the interpreter might not be cen- 
sured as the harder to be understood of the two. I therefore introduced the Old Minstrel, as 
an appropriate prolocutor, bv whom the Lay might be sung or spoken, and the introduction of 
whom betwixt the cantos might remind the reader, at intervals, of ^he time, jjlace, and circum- 
stances of ilie recitation. '1 he species of cadre, or frame, afterwards afforded the poem its 
name of "Ihe Lay of the Last Minstrel." 

The work was subsequently shown to other friends during its progress, and received the 
imprimatur oi Mr. Francis Jeffrey, who had been already for some time distinguished by his 
critical talent. 

The poem, being once licensed by the critics as fit for the market, was soon finished, pro- 
ceeding at about the rate of a canto per week. There was, indeed, little occasion for pause or hes- 
itation, when a troublesome rliyme might be accommodated by an alteration of the stanza, or 
where an incorrect measure might be remedied by a variation of the rhyme. It was finally pub- 
hshed in 1805, and may be regarded as the first work in which the writer, who has been since 
.so voluminous, laid his claim to be considered as an original author. 

'I'he book was published by Longman and Company, and Archibald Constable and Com- 
pany. The principal of ihe hitter firm was then commencnig that course of bold and hberal 
industry which was of much advantage to his country, and miglit have been so to himself, but 
for causes which it is needless to enter into here. The work, brought out on the usual terms 
of division of profits between the author and publishers, was not long after purchased by them 
for ;^50o, to which Messrs. Longman and Company afterwards added ;C'oo, in their own un- 
solicited kindness, in consequence of the uncommon success of the work. It was handsomely 
given to supply the loss of a fine horse, which broke down suddenly while the author was rid- 
ing with one of the worthy publishers. 

It would be great affectation not to own frankly, that the author expected some success 
from "The Lay of the Last Minstrel." The attempt to return to a more simple and natural 
style of poetry was likely to be welcomed at a time when the public had become tired of lieroic 
hexameters, with all the buckram and binding which belong to them of later days. But what- 
ever might have been his expectations, whether moderate or unreasonable, the result left them 
far behind, fur among those who smiled on the adventurous Minstrel were numbered the 
great names of William Pitt and Charles Fox. Neither was the extent of the sale inferior to 
the character of the judges who received the |ioem with approbation. Upwards of thirty thou- 
sand copies of the Lay were disposed of by the trade ; and the author had to perform a task 
difficult to human vanity, when called upon to make the necessary deductions from his own 
merits, in a calm attempt to account for his popularity. 

A few additional remarks on the author's literary attempts after this period will be found 
in the introduction to the Poem of Marmion. 
Abbotsford, April, 1S30. 

mention, and though I may hardly be thanked for disclosing the name of the other, yet I can- 
not but state that ihe second is George Cranstoun, Esq., now a Senator of the College of Jus- 
tice, by the title of Lord Corehouse- 1831. 




F 




" The way was long, the wind was cold, 
The minstrel was infirm and old." 



Page 7. 






THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL 



INTRODUCTION. 

The way was long, the wind was cold, 

The Minstrel was infirm and old ; 

His withered cheek, and tresses gray, 

Seeni'd to have known a better day ; 

The harp, his sole remaining joy, 

Was carried by an orphan boy. 

The last of all the Bards was he, 

Who sung of Border chivalry; 

For, welladay ! their date was fled, 

His tuneful brethren all were dead; 

And he, neglected and oppress'd, 

Wisli'd to be with them, and at rest. 

No more on prancing palfrey borne, 

He caroll'd, light as lark at morn ; 

No longer courted and caress'd, 

High placed in hall, a welcome guest. 

He pour'd, to lord and lady gay. 

The unpremeditated lay : 

Old times were changed, old manners gone ; 

A stranger filled the Stuarts' throne ; 

The bigots of the iron time 

Had call'd his harmless art a crime. 

A wander ng Harper, scorn'd and poor. 

He begg'd his bread from door to door. 

And tuned, to please a peasant's ear, 

The harp, a king had loved to hear. 

He pass'd where Newark's* stately 
tower 
Looks out from Yarrow's birchen bower : 
The Minstrel gazed with wishful eye — 
No humbler resting-place was nigh, 
With hesitating step at last. 
The emijattled portal arch he pass'd, 
Whose ponderous grate and massy bar 
Had oft roll'd back the tide of war. 
But never closed the iron door 
Against the desolate and poor. 

* Newark's stately iower. A ruined tower 
now ; situated three miles irora Selkirk, on the 
banks of the Yarrow. 



The Duchess t iiiark'd his weary pace 
His .timid mien, and reverend face. 
And bade her page the menials tell. 
That they should tend the old man well'. 
For she had known adversity. 
Though born in such a high degree. 
In pride of power, in beauty's bloom, 
Had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb 1 

When kindness had his wants supplied. 
And the old man was gratified. 
Began to rise his minstrel pride : 
And he began to talk anon, 
Of good Earl Francis, | dead and gone, 
And of Earl Walter,§ rest him, God ! 
A braver ne'er to battle rode ; 
And how full many a tale he knew, 
Of the old warriors of Buccleuch ; 
And, would the noble Duchess deign 
To listen to an old man's strain. 
Though stiff his hand, his voice though 

weak, 
He thought even yet, the sooth to speak, 
That, if she loved the harp to hear. 
He could make music to her ear. 

The humble boon was soon obtain'd; 
The aged Minstrel audience gain'd. 
But, when he reach'd the room of state. 
Where she, with all her ladies, sate, 
Perchance he wished his boon denied ; 
For, when to tune his harp he tried, 
His trembling hand had lost the ease, 
Which marks security to please ; 
And scenes, long past, of joy and pain. 
Came wildering o'er his aged brain — 
He tried to tune his harp in vain ! 



t The Duchess. Anne, the heiress of Buc- 
cleuch, who had been married to tlie unhappy 
Duke of Monmouth, sonof Cliarles II. He was 
beheaded for rebellion against James II., 1685. 

X Earl Francis. The Duchess's late father. 

§ Walter, Earl of Buccleuch, gjrandfather of 
the Duchess, and a celebrated warrior. 
(7) 







SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



The pitying Ducliess praised its cliime, 

And gave him heart, and gave him time, 

Till every string's according glee 

Was blended into harmony. 

And then, he said, he would full fain 

Me could recall an ancient strain, 

He never thought to sing again. 

It was not framed for village churls, 

But for high dames and mighty earls ; 

He had play'd it to King Charles the Good, 

When he kept court in Holyrood ; 

And much he wish'd, yet fear'd to try 

The long-forgotten melody. 

Amid the strings his fingers stray'd, 

And an tmcertain warbling made. 

And oft he shook his hoary head. 

But when he caught the measure wild, 

The old man raised his face, and smiled ; 

And lighten'd up his faded eye, 

With all a poet's ecstasy ! 

In varying cadence, soft or strong, 

He swept the sounding chords along j 

The present scene, the future lot. 

His toils, his wants, were all forgot : 

Cold diffidence, and age's frost. 

In the full tide of song were lost : 

Each blank in faithless memory void. 

The poet's glowing thought supplied ; 

And, while his harp responsive rung, 

'Twas thus the Latest Minstrel sung. 



CANTO FIRST. 



The feast was over in Branksome tower,' 
And the Ladye had gone to her secret 

bower ; 
Her bower that was guarded by word and 

by spell. 
Deadly to hear, and deadly to tell — 
Tesu Maria, shield us well ! 
No living wight, save tlie Ladye alone. 
Had dared to cross the threshold stone. 



The tables were drawn, it was idlesss all ; 

Knight, and page, and household squire, 
Loiter' d through the lofty hall. 

Or crowded round the ample fire : 
The staghounds, weary witli the chase. 

Lay stretch'd upon the rushy floor. 
And urged, in dreams, the forest race. 

From Teviot-stone to Eskdale-moor. 



Nine-and-twenty knights of fame 

Hung their shields in Branksome-Hall ;2 
Nine-and-twenty squires of name 

Brought them their steeds to bovver from 
stall ; 
Nine-and-twenty yeomen tall 
Waited, duteous, on them all ; 
They were all knights of mettle true; 
Kinsmen to the bold Buccleuch. 



Ten of them were sheathed in steel. 
With belted sword, and spur on heel : 
They quitted not their harness bright, 
Neither by day, nor yet by night ; 

They lay down to rest, 

With corselet laced, 
Pillow'd on buckler cold and hard ; 

They carved at the meal 

With gloves of steel. 
And they drank the red wine through the 
helmet barr'd. 

V. 

Ten squires, ten yeomen, mail-clad men, 
Waited the beck of the warders ten ; 
Thirty steeds, both fleet and wight. 
Stood saddled in stable day and night, 
Barbed with frontlet of steel, I trow. 
And with Jedwood-axe at saddlebow ; ^ 
A hundred more fed free in stall : — 
Such was the custom of Branksome-Hall, 



Why do these steeds stand ready dight ? 

Why watch these warriors, arm'd, by 
night ?- 

They watch, to hear the blood-hound bay- 
ing; 

They watch to hear the war-horn braying ; 

To see St. George's red cross streaming, 

To see the midnight beacon gleaming : 

They watch, against Southern force and 
guile. 
Lest Scroop, or Howard, or Percy's 

powers. 
Threaten Branksome's lordly towers. 

From Warkwork, or Naworth, or merry 
Carlisle.'' 

VII. 

Such is the custom of Branksome-Hall— 

Many a valiant knight is here ; 
But he, the chieftain of them all, 
His sword hangs rusting on the wall. 
Beside his broken spear. 






THE I.A Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



Bards long shall tell 
How Lord Walter fell ! ^ 
When startled burghers fled, afar, 
The furies of the Border war ; 
When the streets of high Dunedin * 
Saw lances gleam and falchions redden, 
And lieard the slogan's t deadly )'ell — 
Then the Chief of Branksome fell. 



Can piety the discord heal, 

Or stanch the death-feud's enmity? 
Can Christian lore, can patriot zeal, 

Can love of blessed charity ? 
No ! vainly to each holy shrine. 

In mutual pilgrimage they drew ; 
implored, in vain, the grace divine 

For chiefs, their own red falchions slew : 
While Cessford owns the rule of Carr, 

While Ettrick boasts the line of Scott, 
The slaughter'd chiefs, the mortal jar, 
The havoc of the feudal war, 

Shall never, never be forgot ! * 



In sorrow o'er Lord Walter's bier 

The warlike foresters had bent ; 
And many a flower, and many a tear. 

Old Teviot's maids and matrons lent ; 
But o'er her warrior's bloody bier 
The Ladye dropp'd no"- flower nor tear ! 
Vengeance, deep-brooding o'er the slain. 

Had lock'd the source of softer woe ; 
And burning pride, and high disdain, 

Forbade the rising tear to flow ; 
Until, amid his sorrowing clan, 

Her son lisp'd from the nurse's knee— 
" And if I live to be a man, 

My father's death revenged shall be ! " 
Then fast the mother's tears did seek 
To dew the infant's kindling cheek. 



All loose her negligent attire. 

All loose her golden hair. 
Hung Margaret o'er her slaughter'd sire, 

And wept in wild despair ; 
But not alone the bitter tear 

Had filial grief supplied ; 
For hopeless love, and anxious fear, 

Had lent their mingled tide ; 
Nor in her mother's aller'd eye 
Dared she to look for sympathy. 

* Kdinburgli. 

t The war-cry, or gathering word, of 
Border clan. 



Her lover, 'gainst her father's clan, 

With Carr in arms had stood,'' 
When l\Iathou3e-burn to Melrose ran, 

All purple with their blood ; 
And well slie knew, her mother dread, 
Before Lord Cranstoun " she should wed, 
\\'ould see her on her dying bed. 



Of noble race the Ladye came, 
Her father was a clerk cf fame. 

Of Bethune's line of Picardie:9 
He learn'd the art that none may name 

In Padua, far beyond the sea. '° 
Men said, he changed his mortal frame 

By feat of magic mystery ; 
For when, in studious mocle, he paced 

St. Andrew's cloister'd hall. 
His form no darkening shadow traced 

Upon the sunny wall ! '' 



And of his skill, as bards avow, 

He taught that Ladye fan-. 
Till to her bidding she could bov\^ 

The viewless forms of air. 
And now she sits in secret bower. 
In old Lord David's western tower. 
And listens to a heavy sound. 
That moans tlie mossy turrets round. 
Is it the roar of Teviot's tide, 
That chafe6 against the scaur's | red side / 
Is it the wind that swings the oaks ? 
Is it the echo from the rocks ? 
What may it be, the heavy sound. 
That moans old Branksome's turrets 
round ? 



At the sullen, moaning sound. 

The ban-dogs bay and howl ; 
And, from the turrets round. 

Loud whoops the startled owl. 
In the hall, both squire and knight 

Swore that a storm was near. 
And looked forth to view the night ? 

But the night was still and clear ! 



From the sound of Teviot's tide. 
Chafing with the mountain's side. 
From the groan of the wind-swung oak, 
From the sullen echo of the rock, 
From tiie voice of the coming storm. 
The Ladye knew it well ! 



X A steep embankment. 







SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



It was the Spirit of the Flood that spoke. 
And he call'd on the Spirit of the Fell. 



RIVER SPIRIT. 

"Sleep'st thou, brother ! " 

MOUNTAIN SPIRIT. 

— " Brother, nay — 
On my hills the moon-beams play. 
From Craik-cross to Skelfhill-pen, 
By every rill, in every glen, 

Merry elves their morris pacing, 

To aerial minstrelsy, 
Emerald rings on brown heath tracing. 

Trip it deft and merrily. 
Up, and mark their nimble feet 1 
Up, and list their music sweet I "' — 

XVI. 
RIVER SPIRIT. 

" Tears of an imprison'd maiden 
Mix with my polluted stream ; 

Margaret of Branksome, sorrow-laden. 
Mourns beneath the moon's pale beam. 

Tell me, thou, who view'st the stars, 

When shall cease these feudal jars.? 

What shall be the maiden's fate? 

Who shall be the maiden's mate ? " 



MOUNTAIN SPIRIT. 

"Arthur's slow wain his course doth roll, 
In utter darkness round the pole ; 
The Northern Bear lowers black and grim 
Orion's studded belt is dim ; 
Twinkling faint, and distant far, 
Shimmers through mist each planet star ; 

111 may I read their high decree ! 
But no kind influence deign they shower 
On Teviot's tide, and Branksome's tower, 

Till pride be quell'd, and love be free." 

XVIll. 

The unearthly voices ceast. 

And the heavy sound was still ; 
It died on the river's breast. 

It died on the side of the hill. 
But round Lord David's tower 

The sound still floated near ; 
For it rung in the Ladye's bower, 

And it rung in the Ladye's ear. 
She raised her stately head. 

And her heart throbb"d high with pride : — 
" Your mountains shall bend, 

And your streams ascend, 
Ere Margaret be our foeman's bride I " 



The Ladye sought the lofty hall. 

Where many a bold retainer lay, 
And, with jocund din, among them all. 

Her son pursued his infant play. 
A fancied moss-trooper,* the boy 

The truncheon of a spear bestrode. 
And round the hall, right merrily, 

In mimic foray rode. 
Even bearded knights, in arms grown old, 

Share in his frolic gambols bore. 
Albeit their hearts, of rugged mould. 

Were stubborn as the steel they wore. 
For the gray warriors prophesied 

How the brave boy, in future war. 
Should tame the Unicorn's pride, t 

Exalt the Crescent and the Star. J 

XX. 

The Ladye forgot her purpose high, 

One moment, and no more ; 
One moment gazed with a mother's eye, 

As she paused at the arched door ; 
Then from amid the armed train 

She call'd to her William of Deloraine. 



A stark moss-trooping Scott was he. 
As e'er couch'd Border lance by knee; 
Through Solway sands, through Tarras 

moss. 
Blindfold, he knew the paths to cross ; 
By wily turns, by desperate bounds. 
Had baffled Percy's best blood-hounds ; 12 
In Eske or Liddel, fords were none. 
But lie would ride them, one by one ; 
Alike to him was time or tide, 
December's snow, or July's pride; 
.41ike to him was tide or time, 
Moonless midnight, or matin prime ; 
Steady of heart, and stout of hand. 
As ever drove prey from Cumberland ; 
Five times outlaw'd had he been, 
By England's King, and Scotland's Queen. 

XXII. 

" Sir William of Deloraine, good at need, 
Mount thee on the wightest steed ; 



* Moss-trooper, a borderer, whose profession 
was pillage of the English. These marauders 
were called moss-troopers because they dwelt 
in the mosses, and rode, on their incursions, in 
troops. 

t The Unicorn Head was the crest of the 
Carrs, or Kerrs, of Cessford, the enemies of 
the child's late father. 

% The Crescent and the Star were armorial 
bearings of the Scotts of Buccleuch. 







THE LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



II 



Spare not to spur, nor stint to ride, 
Until thou come to fair Tweedside ; 
And in Melrose's holy pile 
Seek thou the monk of St. Mary's aisle. 
Greet the Fatlier well from me ; 

Say that the fated hour is come, 
And to-night he shall watch with thee. 
To win the treasure of the to.nib ; 
For this will be St. Michael's night, 
And, though the stars be dim, the moon is 

bright ; 
And the Cross, of bloody red. 
Will point to the grave of the mighty dead. 

XXIII. 

" What he gives thee, see thou keep ; 

Stay not thou for food or sleep ; 

Be it scroll, or be it book. 

Into it. Knight, thou must not look ; 

If thou readest, thou art lorn ! 

Better hadst thou ne'er been born." — 

XXIV. 

'• O swiftly can speed my dapple-gray steed, 

Which drinks of the Teviot clear ; 
Ere break of day," the Warrior 'gan say, 

" Again will I be here : 
And safer by none may thy errand be done. 

Than, noble dame, by me ; 
Letter nor line know I never a one, 

Wer't my neck-verse at Hairibee." * 

XXV. 

Soon in his saddle sate he fast, 
And soon the steep descent he past, 
Soon cross'd the sounding barbican,! 
And soon the Teviot side he won. 
Eastward the wooded path he rode. 
Green hazels o'er his basnet nod ; 
He pass'd the Peel of Goldiland,t 
And cross'd old Borthwick's roaring strand ; 
Dimly he view'd the Moat-hill's mound, 
Where Druid shades still flitted round ; 
In Hawick twinkled many a light; 
Behind him soon they set in night ; 

* Hairibee, the place on Carlisle wall where 
the moss-troopers, if caught, were hung. The 
neck-verse was the first verse nf Psalm 51. If 
a criminal claimed on the scaffold "benefit of 
his clergy," a priest instantlv presented him 
with a Psalter, and he read his neck-verse. 
The power of reading it entitled him to his life, 
which was spared ; but he was banished the 
kingdom. See Palgrave's " Merchant and 
Friar." 

t Barbican., the defence of the outer gate of 
a feudal castle. 

X Peel, a Border tower. 



And soon he spurr'd his courser keen 
Beneath the tower of Hazeldean. 



The clattering hoofs the watchmen mark ;— 
" Stand, ho ! thou courier of the dark.'' — 
" For Branksome, ho ! " the knight rejoin'd, 
And left the friendly tower behind. 

He turn'd him now from Teviotside, 
And, guided by the tinkling rill. 

Northward the dark ascent did ride, 
.A.nd gaiu'd the moor at Horsliehill ; 
Broad on the left before him lay. 
For many a miie, the Roman way.§ 



A moment now he slack'd his speed, 
A moment breathed his panting steed ; 
Drew saddle-girth and corslet band, 
And loosen'd in the sheath his brand. 
On Minto-crags the moonbeams glint, 
Where Barnhill hew'd his bed of flint ; 
Who flung his outlaw'd limbs to rest. 
Where falcons hang their giddy nest. 
Mid cliffs, from whence his eagle eye 
For inany a league his prey could spy; 
Cliffs, doubling, on their echoes borne, 
The terrors of the robber's horn ; 
Cliffs, which, for many a later year, 
The warbling Doric reed shall hear, 
When some sad swain shall teach the grove 
Ambition is no cure for love ! 

XXVIII. 

Unchallenged, thence pass'd Deloraine, 
To ancient Riddel's fair domain. 

Where Aill, from mountains freed, 
Down from the lakes did raving come; 
Eacli wave was crested with tawny foam. 

Like the mane of a chestnut steed. 
In vain ! no torrent, deep or broad, 
Might bar the bold moss-trooper's road. 

XXIX. 

At the first plunge the Iiorse sunk low, 
And the water broke o'er the saddlebow ; 
Above the foaming tide, I ween, 
Scarce half the charger's neck was seen ; 
For he was barded [| from counter to tail. 
And the rider was armed complete in mail ; 
Never heavier man and horse 
Stemm'd a midnight torrent's force. 



§ An ancient Roman road, crossing through 
part of Roxburghshire. 

li Barded, or barbed, applied to a horse ac- 
coutred with defensive armor. 







SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The warrior's very plume, I say, 

Was draggled by the dashing spray : 

Yet, through good heart, and Our Ladye's 

grace. 
At length he gain'd the landing-place. 



Now Bowden Moor the march-man won, 

And sternly shook his plumed head. 
As glanced his eye o'er Halidon : * 
For on his soul the slaughter red 
Of that unhallow'd morn arose, 
When first the Scott and Carr were foes ; 
When royal James beheld the fray, 
Prize to the victor of the day ; 
When Home and Douglas, in the van. 
Bore down Buccleuch's retiring clan, 
Till gallant Cessford's heart-blood dear 
Reek'd on dark Elliot's Border spear. 



In bitter mood he spurred fast, 
And soon the hated heath was past ; 
And far beneath, in lustre wan. 
Old Melros' rose, and fair Tweed ran : 
Like some tall rock with lichens gray, 
Seem'd dimly huge, the dark .\bbaye. 
When Hawick he pass'd, had curfew rung, 
Now midnight lauds t were in Melrose 

sung. 
The sound, upon the fitful gale. 
In solemn wise did rise and fail. 
Like that wild harp, whose magic tone 
Is waken'd by the winds alone. 
But when Melrose he reach'd, 'twas silence 

all; 
He meetly stabled his steed in stall. 
And sought the convent's lonely wall. '^ 



Here paused the harp ; and with its swell 
The Master's fire and courage fell ; 
Dejectedly, and low, he bow'd, 
And, gazing timid on the crowd. 
He seem'd to seek, in every eye. 
If they approved his minstrelsy ; 
And, diffident of present praise, 
Somewhat he spoke of former days. 
And how old age, and wand'ring long, 
Had done his hand and harp some wrong. 
The Duchess, and her daughters fair, 
And every gentle lady there. 



* Halidon was an ancient seat of the Kerrs 
of Cessford, now demolished. 

i Lauds, the midnight service of the Catholic 
Church. 



Each after each, in due degree, 
Gave praises to his melody ; 
His hand was true, his voice was clear, 
And much they long'd the rest to hear. 
Encouraged thus, the Aged Man, 
After meet rest, again began. 



CANTO SECOND. 
I. 

If thou would'st view fair Melrose aright, 

Go visit it by the pale moonlight ; 

For the gay beams of lightsome day 

Gild, but to flout, the ruins gray. 

When the broken arches are black in night, 

And each shafted oriel glimmers white ; 

When the cold light's uncertain shower 

Streams on the ruin'd central tower ; 

When buttress and buttress, alternately. 

Seem framed of ebon and ivory ; 

When silver edges the imagery. 

And the scrolls that teach thee to live and 

die ; ■* 
When distant Tweed is heard to rave, 
And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's 

grave. 
Then go — but go alone the while — 
Then view St. David's ruin'd pile ; 
And, home returning, soothly swear. 
Was never scene so sad and fair ! 



Short halt did Deloraine make there ; 
Little reek'd he of the scene so fair ; 
With dagger's hilt, on the wicket strong, 
He struck full loud, and struck full long. 
The porter hurried to the gate — 
" Who knocks so loud, and knocks sc 

late ? " 
"From Branksome I," the warrior cried; 
And straight the wicket open'd wide : 
For Branksome's Chiefs had in battle stood. 

To fence the rights of fair Melrose ; 
And lands and livings, many a rood, 

Had gifted the shrine for their souls 
repose. 

HI. 

Bold Deloraine his errand said ; 
The porter bent his humble head ; 
With torch in hand, and feet unshod. 
And noiseless step, the path he trod, 
The arched cloister, far and wide, 
Rang to the warrior's clanking stride, 
Till, stooping low his lofty crest, 
He enter'd the cell of the ancient priest, 





THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



e 



13 



And lifted his bannd aventayle * 
To hail the Monk of St. Mary's aisle. 



" The Ladye of Branksome greets thee bv 
me. 

Says, that the fated hour is come, 
And that to-night I shall watch with thee, 

To wm the treasure of the tomb." 
From sackcloth couch the Monk arose, 

With toil his stiffen'd limbs he rear'd ; 
A lumdred years had flung their snows 

On his thin locks and floating beard. 



And strangely on the Knight look'd he, 

And his blue eyes gleam'd wild and wide ; 
" And, darest thou, Warrior 1 seek to see 

What heaven and hell alike would hide? 
My breast, in belt of iron pent, 

With shirt of hair and scourge of thorn ; 
For threescore years, in penance spent. 

My knees those flinty stones have worn : 
Yet all too little to atone 
For knowing what should ne'er be known. 

Would's<- thou thy every future year 
In ceaseless prayer and penance drie, 

Yet wait thy latter end with tear — 
Then, daring Warrior, follow me ! " — 



"Penance, father, will I none; 
Prayer know I hardly one , 
For mass or prayer can I rarely tarry 
Save to patter an Ave Mary, 
When I ride on a Border foray. 
Other prayer can I none ; 
So speed me my errand, and let me be 
gone." — 

VII. 

Again on the Knight looked the Churcii- 
man old. 
And again he sighed heavily ; 

For he had himself been a warrior bold, 
And fought in Spain and Italy. 

And he thought on the days that were long 
since by, 

When his limbs were strong, and his cour- 
age was high : — 

Now, slow and faint, he led the way, 

Wiiere, cloister'd round, the garden lay ; 

The piUar'd arches were over their head, 

And beneath their feet were the bones of 
the dead. 

* Aveniayle, visor of the helmet. 



Spreading herbs, and flowerets bright, 
Glisten'd with the dew of night ; 
Nor herb, nor floweret, glisten'd there, 
But was carved in the cloister-arches as fair. 
The monk gazed long on the lovely 
moon, 
Then into the night he looked torth ; 
And red and bright the streamers light 
Were dancing in the glowing north. 
So had he seen, in fair Castille, 

The youth in glittering squadrons 
start ; 
Sudden the flymg jennet wheel, 
And hurl the unexpected dart. 
He knew, bv the streamers that shot so 

bright. 
That spirits were riding the northern light. 



By a steel-clenched postern door. 

They enter'd now the chancel tall , 
The darken'd roof rose high aloof 

On pillars lofty and light and small : 
The key-stone, that lock'd each ribbed 

aisle, 
Was a fleur-de-lys, or a quatre-feuille ; 
The corbells were carved grotesque and 

grim ; 
And the pillars, with cluster'd shafts so 

trim, 
With base and with capital flourish'd 

around, 
Seem'd bundles of lances which garlands 

had bound. 



Full many a scutcheon and banner riven. 
Shook to the cold night-wind ot heaven. 

Around the screened altar's pale ; 
And there the dying lamps did burn. 
Before thy low and lonely urn, 
O gallant Chief of Otterburne ! 15 

And thine, dark Knight ot Liddesdale! 1' 
O fading honors ot the dead ! 
O high ambition, lowlv laid ! 



The moon on the east oriel shone 
Through slender shafts of shapely stone. 

By foliaged tracery combined ; 
Thou would'st have thought some fairy's 

hand 
'Twixt poplars straight the osier wand, 
In many a freakish knot, had twined ; 






'4 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Then framed a spell, when the work was 

done, 
And changed the willow-wreaths to stone. 
The silver light, so pale and faint, 
Show'd many a prophet, and many a saint. 

Whose image on the glass was dyed ; 
Full in the midst, his Cross of Red 
Triumphant Michael brandished. 

And trampled the Apostate's pride. 
The moon-beam kiss'd the holy pane. 
And threw on the pavement a bloody stain. 

XII. 

They sate them down on a marble stone, 

(.\ Scottish monarch slept below ;)* 
Thus spoke the Monk, in solemn tone: — 

" I was not always a man of woe ; 
For Paynim countries [ have trod, 
And fought beneath the Cross of God : 
Now, strange to my eyes thine arms ap- 
pear, 
And their iron clang sounds strange to my 
ear. 

XIII. 

" In these far climes it was my lot 

To meet the wondrous Michael Scott, i'" 

A wizard, of such dreaded fame, 
That when, in Salamanca's cave, 
Him listed his magic wand to wave, 

The bells would ring in Notre Dame ! 
Some of his skill he taught to me; 
And, Warrior, I could say to thee 
The words that cleft Eildon hills in three,i8 

And bridled the Tweed with a curb of 
scone : 
But to speak them were a deadly sin ; 
And for having but thought them my heart 
within, 

A treble penance must be done. 

XIV. 

*' When Michael lay on his dying bed. 

His conscience was awakened : 

He bethougiit him of his sinful deed. 

And he gave me a sign to come with speed ; 

I was in Spain when the morning rose. 

But I stood by his bed ere evening close. 

The words may not again be said. 

That he spoke to me, on death-bed laid ; 

They would rend this Abbaye's massy nave. 

And pile it in heaps above his grave. 



" I swore to bury his Mighty Book, 
That never mortal might therein look ; 



* Alexander II. 



And never to tell where it was hid. 

Save at his Chief of Branksome's need: 

And when that need was past and o'er, 

Again the volume to restore. 

1 buried him on St. Michael's night. 

When the bell toll'd one, and the moon was 

bright, 
.'^nd I dug his chamber among the dead. 
When the floor of the chancel was stained 

red. 
That his patron's cross might over him 

wave. 
And scare the fiends from the Wizard's 

grave. 

XVI. 

■' It was a night of woe and dread. 
When Michael in the tomb I laid! 
Strange sounds along the chancel pass'd, 
The banners waved without a blast ; " — 
—Still spoke tiie Monk, when the bell toll'd 

one ! — 
I tell you, that a braver man 
Than William of Deloraine, good at need. 
Against a foe ne'er spurr'd a steed ; 
Yet somewhat was he chill'd with dread. 
And his hair did bristle upon his head. 

XVII, 

" Lo, Warrior ! now, the Cross of Red 
Points to the grave of the mighty dead ; 
Within It barns a wondrous light. 
To chase the spirits that love the night : 
That lamp shall burn unquenchably. 
Until the eternal doom shall be." t — 
Slow moved the Monk to the broad flag- 
stone. 
Which the bloody Cross was traced upon : 
He pointed to a secret nook; 
•An iron bar the Warrior took ; 
And the Monk made a sign with his wither'd 

hand. 
The grave's huge portal to expand. 

XVIII. 

With beating heart to the task he went ; 
His sinewy frame o'er the grave-stone bent, 
With bar of iron heaved amain. 
Till the toil-drops fell from his brows, like 

rain. 
It was by dint of passing strength. 
That he moved the massy stone at length. 
I would you had been there, to see 
How the light broke forth so gloriouslv. 



\ It was a belief of tlie Middle Ages, that 
eternal lamps were to be found burning ui 
ancient sepulchres. 






TH£ LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



15 



Stream'd upward to the chancel roof, 
And through the galleries far aloof ! 
No earthly flame blazed e'er so bright '. 
It shone like heaven's own blessed light, 

And, issuing from the tomb, 
Show'd the Monk's cowl, and visage pale. 
Danced on the dark-brow'd Warrior's 
mail, 

And kiss'd his waving plume. 



Before their eyes the Wizard lay, 
As if he had not been dead a day. 
His hoary beard in silver roll'd, 
.He seem'd some seventy winters old ; 

A palmer's amice wrapp'd him round. 

With a wrought Spanish baldric bound. 
Like a pilgrim from beyond the sea ; 

His left hand held his Book of Might ; 

A silver cross was in his right ; 

The lamp was placed beside his knee ; 
High and majestic was his look. 
At which the fellest fiends had shook, 
And all unruffled was his face : 
They trusted his soul had gotten grace. 



Often had William of Deloraine 
Rode through the battle's bloody plain, 
And trampled down the warriors slain, 

And neitlier known remorse nor awe ; 
Vet now remorse and awe he own'd ; 
His breath came thick, his head swam 
round, 

When this strange scene of death he saw, 
Bewilder'd and unnerved he stood, 
And the priest pray'd fervently and loud : 
With eyes averted prayed he ; 
He might not endure the sight to see. 
Of the man he had loved so brotherly. 



And when the priest his death-prayer had 

pray'd, 
riuis unto Deloraine he said : — 
"Now, speed thee what thou hast to do, 
Or, Warrior, we may dearly rue ; 
For those, thou may'st not look upon. 
Are gathering fast round the yawning 

stone ! " — 
Then Deloraine, in terror, took 
From the cold hand the Mighty Book, 
With iron clasp'd, and with iron bound : 
He thought, as he took it, the dead man 

frown'd ; 



But the glare of the sepulchral light, 
Perchance, had dazzled the warrior's sight. 



When the huge stone sunk o'er the tomb, 

The night return'd in double gloom ; 

For the moon had gone down, and the stars 

were few ; 
And, as the Knight and Priest withdrew. 
With wavering steps and dizzy brain, 
They hardly might the postern gain. 
'Tis said, as through the aisles they pass'd. 
They heard strange noises on the ijlast ; 
And through the cloister-galleries small, 
Which at mid-height thread the chancel 

wall, 
Loud sobs, and laughter louder, ran. 
And voices unlike the voice of man ; 
As if the fiends kept holiday. 
Because these spells were brought to day. 
I cannot tell how the trutli may be ; 
I say the tale as 'twas said to me. 



" Now, hie thee hence," the Father said, 

" And when we are on death-bed laid, 

O may our dear Ladye, and sweet St. 

John, 
Forgive our souls for the deed we have 
done ! " 
The Monk return'd him to his cell, 

And many a prayer and penance sped ; 
When the convent met at the noontide 
bell— 
The Monk of St. Mary's aisle was 
dead ! 
Before the cross was the body laid. 
With hands clasp'd fast, as if stiil he 
pray'd. 



The Knight breathed free in the morning 

wind, 
And strove his hardihood to find : 
He was glad when hepas«'d the tombstones 

gray, 
Which girdle round the fair .\bbaye ; 
For the mystic Book, to his bosom prest. 
Felt like a load upon his breast ; 
And his joints, with nerves of iron twined, 
Shook, like the aspen leaves in wind. 
Full fain was he when the dawn of day 
Began to brighten Cheviot gray ; 
He joy'd to see the clieerful light. 
And he said Ave Mary as well as hr 

might. 




F 




i6 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The sun liadbrighten'd Cheviot g-ay, 

The sun had brighten'd the Carter's * 
side ; 
And soon beneatli the rising day 

Smiled Branksome Towers and Teviot's 
tide. 
The wild birds told their warbling tale, 

And waken'd every flower that blows ; 
And peeped forth the violet pale, 

And spread her breast the mountain rose. 
And lovelier than the rose so red, 

Yet paler than the violet pale, 
She early left her sleepless bed, 

The fairest maid of Teviotdale. 



Why does fair Margaret so early awake ? 

And don her kirtle so hastilie ; 
And the silken knots, whicii in hurry she 
would make, 

Why tremble her slender fingers to tie ; 
Why does she stop, and look often around. 

As she glides down the secret stair ; 
And why does she pat the shaggy blood- 
hound. 

As he rouses him up from his lair ; 
And, though she passes the postern alone. 
Why is not the watchman's bugle blown ? 



The ladye steps in doubt and dread. 
Lest her watchful mother hear her tread ; 
The lady caresses the rough blood-hound, 
Lest his voice should waken the castle 

round. 
The watchman's bugle is not blown. 
For he was her foster-father's son ; 
And she glides through the greenwood at 

dawn of light 
To meet Baron Henry,her own true knight. 



The Knight and ladye fair are met. 

And under the hawthorn's boughs are set. 

A fairer pair were never seen 

To meet beneath the hawthorn green. 

He was stately, and young, and tall ; 

Dreaded in battle, and loved in hall 

And she, when love, scarce told, scarce hid. 

Lent to her cheek a livelier red ; 

When the half sigh her swelling breast 

Against the silken ribbon pres'. ; 



* A mountain or. the Border of Eng 
:'bove Jedburgh. 



Ijiid, 



When her blue eyes their secret told, 
Though shaded by her lock? of gold — 
Where would you find the peerless fair, 
With Margaret of Branksome might com- 
pare ? 

XXIX. 

And nov^, fair dames, methinks I see 

You listen to my minstrelsy ; 

Your waving locks ye backward throw, 

And sidelong bend your necks of snow; 

Ye ween to hear a melting tale. 

Of two true lovers in a dale ; 

And how the Knight, with tender fire 
To paint his faithful passion strove; 

Swore he might at her feet expire. 
But never, never, cease to love; 
And how she blush'd, and how she sigh'd, 
And, half consenting, half denied. 
And said that she would die a maid ; — 
\' et, might the bloody feud be stay'd, 
Hsnry of Cranstoun, and only he, 
Margaret of Branksome's choice should be. 



Alas ! fair dames, your hopes are vain I 
My harp has lost the enchanting strain j 

Its lightness would my age reprove : 
My hairs are gray, my hmbs are old, 
My heart is dead, my veins are cold ; 

I may not, must not, sing of love. 



Beneath an oak, moss'd o'er by eld, 
The l?aron's Dwarf his courser held,'9 

And held his crested helm and spear : 
That Dwarf was scarce an earthly man, 
If the tales were true that of him ran 

Through all the Border far and near. 
'Twas said, when the Baron a-hunting 

rode. 
Through Redesdale's glens, but rarely trod. 
He heard a voice cry, " Lost ! lost ! 

lost!'' 
And, like tennis-ball by racket toss'd, 

A leap, of thirty feet and three. 
Made from the gorse this elfin shape, 
Distorted like some dwarfish ape. 

And lighted at Lord Cranstoun's 
knee. 
Lord Cranstoun was some whit dis- 

may'd; 
'Tis said that five good miles he rade, 
To rid him of his company ; 
But where he rode one mile, the Dwarf 

ran four. 
And the Dwarf was first at the castle door. 




M. 




THE LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



17 - 



Use lessens marvel, it is said: 
This elvish Dwarf witli the Baron staid ; 
Little he ate, and less he spoke, 
Nor mingled with the menial flock : 
And oft apart his arms he toss'd, 
And often mutter'd " Lost ! lost ! lost ! " 
He was waspish, arch, and litherlie,* 
But well Lord Cranstoim served he : 
And he of his service was full fain 
For once he had been ta'en or slain, 

An it had not been for his ministry. 
All between Home and Hermitage, 
Talk'd of Lord Cranstoun's Goblin-Page. 



For the Baron went on Pilgrimage, 
And took with him this elvish Page, 
To Mary's Chapel of the Lowes ; 
For there beside our Ladye's lake. 
An offering he had sworn to make, 

And he would pay his vows. 
Put the Ladye of Branksome gather'd a 

band 
Of the best that would ride at her com- 
mand : 
The trysting place was Newark Lee. 
Wat of Harden came thither ainain, 
And thither came |ohn of Thirlestane, 
And thither came William of Deloraine ; 
They were three hundred spears and 
three. 
Through Douglas-burn, up Yarrow stream. 
Their horses prance, their lances gleam. 
They came to St. Mary's lake ere day ; 
But the chapel was void, and the Baron 

away. 
They burn'd the chapel for very rage, 
And cursed Lord Cranstoun's Goblin- 
Page. 

XXXIV. 

And now, in Branksome' s good green 

wood. 
As under the aged oak he stood. 
The Baron's courser pricks his ears, 
As if a distant noise he hears. 
The Dwarf waves his long lean arm on 

high. 
And signs to the lovers to part and fly ; 
No time was then to vow or sigh. 
Fair Margaret through the hazel grove, 
Flew like the startled cushat-dove : 
The Dwarf the stirrup held and rein ; 
Vaulted the Knight on his steed amain, 



And, pondering 

scene, 
Rode eastward 

green. 



deep that morning's 
through the hawthorns 



• Idle. 



While thus he pour'd the lengthen'd tale 
The MiVistrel's voice began to fail ; 
Full slyly smiled the observant page. 
And gave the wither'd hand of ago 
A goblet crown'd with mighty wine, 
The blood of Velez' scorched vine. 
He raised the silver cup on high, 
And, while the big drop fill'd his eye, 
Pray'd God to bless the Duchess long, 
And all who cheer'd a son of song. 
The attending maidens smiled to see 
How long, how deep, how zealously. 
The precious juice the Minstrel quaff 'd ; 
And he, embolden'd by the draught, 
Look'd gayly back to them, and laugh'd. 
The cordial nectar of the bowl 
Swell'd his old veins, and cheer'd his soul; 
A lighter, liveUer prelude ran, 
Ere thus his tale again began. 



CANTO THIRD. 



And said I that my limbs were old, 
And said I that my blood was cold, 
And that my kindly fire was fled. 
And my poor wither'd heart was dead, 

And that I might not sing of love.? — 
How could I to the dearest theme. 
That ever warm'd a minstrel's dream, 

So foul, so false a recreant prove! 
How could I name love's very name, 
Nor wake my heart to notes of flame 1 

II. 

In peace. Love tunes the shepherd's reed ; 

In war, he mounts the warrior's steed ; 

In halls, in gay attire is seen ; 

In liamlets, dances on the green. 

Love rules the court, the camp, the grove. 

And men below, and saints above ; 

For love is heaven, and heaven is love. 



So thought Lord Cranstoun, as I ween, 
While, pondering deep the tender scene, 
He rode through Branksome's hawthorn 
green. 






^ i8 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



But the Page shouted wild and shrill, 

And scarce his helmet could he don, 
When downward from the shady hill 
A stately knight came pricking on. 
That warrior's steed, so dapple-gray, 
Was dark with sweat, and splash'd with 
clay ; 
His armor red with many a stain ; 
He seem'd in such a weary plight. 
As if he had ridden the live-long night ; 
For it was William of Deloraine. 



But no whit weary did he seem. 

When, dancing in the sunny beam. 

He mark'd the crane on the baron's crest ; * 

For his ready spear was m his rest. 

Few were the words, and stern and high. 
That mark'd the foemen's feudal 
hate ; 
For question fierce, and proud reply, 
Gave signal soon of dire debate. 
Their very coursers seem'd to know 
That each was other's mortal foe, 
And snorted fire, wlien wheel'd around, 
To give each knight his vantage-ground. 

V. 
In rapid round the Baron bent ; 

He sigh'd a sigh, and pray'd a prayer ; 
The prayer was to his patron saint, 

The sigh was to his ladye fair. 
Stout Deloraine nor sigh'd nor pray'd, 
Nor saint, nor ladye, call'd to aid ; 
But he stoop'd his head, and couch'd his 

spear, 
And spurr'd his steed to full career. 
The meeting of these champions proud 
Seem'd like the bursting thunder-clovid. 



Stern was the dint the Borderer lent ! 
The stately Baron backwards bent ; 
Bent backwards to his horse's tail, 
And his plumes went scattering en the 

gale. 
The tough ash spear, so stout and true, 
Into a thousand flinders flew. 
But Cranstoun's lance, of more avail, 
Pierced through, like silk, the Borderer's 

mail ; 

* The crest of the Cranstouns, in allusion to 
their name, is a crane, dormant, holding a stone 
in his foot, with an emphatic Border motto, 
Thou shalt want ere I -want. Arms thus pun- 
ning on the name, are said heraldically to be 
" canting." 



Through shield, and jack, and acton, past. 
Deep in his bosom, broke at last.— 
Still sate the warrior saddle-fast, 
Till, stumbling in the mortal shock, 
Down went the steed, the girthing broke, 
Hurl'd on a heap lay man and horse. 
The Baron onward pass'd his course ; 
Nor knew — so giddy roll'd his brain— 
His foe lay stretch'd upon the plain. 



But when he rein'd lis courser round, 
And saw his foeman on the ground 

Lie senseless as the bloody clay. 
He bade his page to stanch the wound. 

And there beside the warrior stay. 
And tend him in his doubtful state. 
And lead him to Branksome castle-gate • 
His noble mind was inly moved 
For the kinsman of the maid he loved. 
" This shalt thou do without delay : 
No longer here myself may stay ; 
Unless the swifter J speed away. 
Short shrift will be at my dying clay." 

VIII. 

Away in speed Lord Cranstuun rode ; 

The Goblin Page behind abode ; 

His lord's command he ne'er withstood, 

Though small his pleasure to do good. 

As tlie corslet oft" he took. 

The dwarf espied the Mighty Book ! 

I\Iuch he marvell'd a knight of pride, 

Like a book-bosom'd priest should ride; f 

He thought not to search or stanch the 

wound. 
Until the secret he had found. 



The iron band, the iron clasp. 
Resisted long the elfin grasp : 
For when the first he had undone, 
It closed as he the next begun. 
Those iron clasps, that iron band, 
Would not yield to unchristen'd hand, 
Till he smear'd the cover o'er 
With the Borderer's curdled gore ; 
A moment then the volume spread. 
And one short spell therein he read. 
It had much of glamour \ might. 
Could make a ladye seem a knight ; 
The cobwebs on a dungeon wall 
Seem tapestry in lordly hall ; 



t Priests were wont to carry their mass- 
book, for burying and marrying, &c., in theil 
bosoms. 

% Magical delusion. 






THE LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



A nut-5hell seem a gilded barge, 
A sheeling * seem a palace large, 
And youth seem age, and age seem youth- 
All was delusion, nought was truth. 20 



He had not read another spell, 

When on his clieek a buffet fell, 

So fierce, it stretch'd him on the plain, 

Beside the wounded Deloraine. 

From the ground he rose dismay'd, 

And shook his huge and matted head ; 

One word he mutter' d, and no more, 

" Man of age, thou smitest sore ! " — 

No more the Elfin Page durst try 

Into the wondrous Book to pry ; 

The clasps, though smear'd with Christian 

gore. 
Shut faster than they were before. 
He hid it underneath his cloak. — 
Now, if you ask who gave the stroke, 
I cannot tell, so mot I thrive ; 
It was not given by man alive. 

XI. 

Unwillingly himself he address'd. 
To do his master's high behest : 
He lifted up the living corse, 
And laid it on the weary horse ; 
He led him into Branksome Hall, 
Before the beards of the warders all ; 
And each did after swear and say. 
There only pass'd a wain of hay. 
He took him to Lord David's tower, 
Even to the Ladye's secret bower ; 
And, but that stronger spells were spread, 
And the door might not be opened. 
He had laid him on her very bed. 
Whate'er he did of gramarye,t 
Was always done maliciously ; 
He flung the warrior on the ground, 
And the blood well'd freshly from the 
wound. 



As he repass'd ^he outer court. 

Mi spied the fair young child at sport ; 

He thought to train him to the wood ; 

For, at a word, be it understood, 

He was always for ill, and never for good. 

Seem'd to the boy, some comrade gay 

Led him forth to the woods to play ; 

On the drawbridge the warders stout 

Saw a terrier and lurcher passing out. 



' A shepherd's hut. 



t Magic. 



He led the boy o'er bank and fell, 

Until they came to a woodland brook ;^' 
The running stream dissolved the spell, 

And his own elvish shape he took. 
Could he have had his pleasure vilde, 
He had crippled the joints of the noble 

child ; 
Or, with his fingers long and lean. 
Had strangled him in fiendish spleen; 
But his awful mother he had in dread, 
And also his power was limited ; 
So he but scowl'd on the startled child. 
And darted through the forest wild; 
The woodland brook he bounding cross'd, 
And laugh'd, and shouted, " Lost ! lostj 
lost!"— 

XIV. 

Full sore amazed at the wondrous change 

And frigliten'd as a child might be, 
At the wild yell and visage strange, 

And the dark words of gramarye, 
The child, amidst the forest bower. 
Stood rooted like a lily flower ; 

And when, at length, with trembling 
pace. 
He sought to find where Branksome lay, 

He fear'd to see that grisly face 

Glare from some thicket on his way. 
Thus, starting oft, he journey'd on, 
And deeper in the wood is gone, — 
For aye the more he sought his way, 
The farther still lie went astray, — 
Until he heard the mountains round 
Ring to tlie baying of a hound. 



And hark ! and hark ! the deep-moutl. i 
bark 

Comes nigher still, and nigher : 
Bursts on the path a dark blood-hound, 
His tawny muzzle track'd the ground, 

And his red eye shot fire. 
Soon as the wilder'd child saw he 
He flew at him right furiouslie. 
I ween you would have seen with joy 
The bearing of the gallant boy. 
When, worthy of his noble sire, 
Hi's wet cheek glow'd 'twixt fear and ire' 
He faced the blood-hound manfully. 
And held his little bat on high ; 
So fierce he struck, the dog, afraid. 
At cautious distance hoarsely bay'd 

But still in act to spring , 







SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Whan dash'd an archer through the glade, 
And when he saw the hound was stay'd, 

He drew his tough bow-string ; 
But a rough voice cried, " Shoot not, hoy 1 
Ho ! shoot not, Edward — 'Tis a boy ! " 



The speaker issued from the wood, 
And check'd his fellow's surly mood, 

And quell'd the ban-dog's ire : 
He was an English yeoman good, 

And born in Lancashire, 
Well could he hit a fallow-deer 

Five hundred feet him fro ; 
Witli hand more true, and eye more clear, 

No archer bended bow. 
His coal-black hair, sliorn round and close. 

Set off his sun-burn'd face ; 
Old England's sign, St. George's cross. 

His barret-cap did grace ; 
His bugle-horn hung by his side, 
All in a wolf-skin baldric tied ; 
And his short falchion, sharp and clear, 
Had pierced the thi oat of many a deer. 



His kirtle, made of forest green, 

Reach'd scantly to his knee ; 
And, at his belt, of arrows keen 

A furbish'd sheaf bore he ; 
His buckler, scarce in breadth a span. 

No larger fence had he ; 
He never counted him a man. 

Would strike below the knee ; ^^ 
His slacken'd bow was in his hand. 
And the leash, that was his blood-hound's 
band. 

XVIII. 

He would not do the fair child harm. 
But held him with his powerful arm. 
That he might neither fight nor flee j 
For when the Red-Cross spied he. 
The boy strove long and violently. 
" Now, by St. George," the archer cries, 
" Edward, methinks we have a prize ! 
This boy's fair face, and courage free, 
Show he is come of high degree." — 

XIX. 

" Yes ! I am come of high degree. 
For I am the heir of bold Buccleuch , 

And, if thou dost not set me free, 

False Southron, thou shalt dearly rue ! 

For Walter of Harden shall come with 
speed. 

And William of Deloraine, good at need. 



And every Scott, from Esk to Tweed ; 
And, if thou dost not let me go. 
Despite thy arrows, and thy bow, 
I'll have thee hang'd to feed the crow ! " — 



" Gramercy,* for thy good-will, fair boy ! 
My mind was never set so high ; 
But if thou art chief of such a clan, 
And art the son of such a man, 
And ever comest to thy command. 

Our wardens had need to keep good 
grder ; 
My bow of yew to a hazel wand, 

Thou'lt make them work upon the 
Border. 
Meantime, be pleased to come with me. 
For good Lord Dacre shalt thou see ; 
I think our work is well begun. 
When we have taken thy father's son." 



Although the child was led away. 
In Branksome still he seem'd to stay, 
For so the Dwarf his part did play ; 
.4nd, in the shape of that young boy. 
He wrought the castle much annoy. 
The comrades of the young Buccleuch 
lie pinch'd, and beat, and overthrew ; 
Nay, some of them he wellnigh slew. 
He tore Dame Maudlin's silken tire. 
And, as Sym Hall stood by the fire. 
He lighted the match of his bandelier,t 
And wofully scorch"d the hackbuteer.| 
It may be hardlv thought or said. 
The mischief that the urchin made. 
Till many of the castle guess'd 
That the young Baron was possess'd! 



Well I ween the charm he held 
The noble Ladye had soon dispelled ; 
Fiut she was deeply busied then 
To tend the wounded Deloraine. 

Much she wonder'd to find him lie. 
On the stone threshold stretch'd along , 

She thought some spirit of the sky 

Had done the bold moss-trooper wrong; 
Because, despite her precept dread. 
Perchance he in the Book had read ; 
B'.it the broken lance in his bosom stood, 
.\nd it was earthly steel and v/ood. 



* Grand merci, thanks. 

t Baiidelier, belt for carrying ammunition. 

X Hackbittce-r, musketeer. 




W 





THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



XXIII- 

Slie drew the spliiiter from tlie wound, 
And with a charm !?he stancli'd the 
blood ; 

She bade tlie gash be cleansed and bound . 
No longer by his coucii she stood; 

But she has ta'en the broken lance, 
And wash'd it from the clotted gore. 
And salved the splinter o'er and o'er.* 

William of Deloraine, in trance, 

Whene'er she turned it round and round, 
Twisted as if she gall'd his wound. 
Then to her maidens she did say, 
That he should be whole man and sound, 
Withm the course of a night and day. 

Full long she toil'd; for she did rue 

Mishap to friend so stout and true. 



So pass'd the day — the evening fell, 
'T was near the time of curfew bell ; 
The air was mild, the wind was calm, 
The stream was smooth, the dew was balm 
E'en the rude watchman, on the tower, 
Enjoy'd and bless'd the lovely hour. 
Far more fair Margaret loved and bless'd 
The hour of silence and of rest. 
On the high turret sitting lone, 
She waked at times the lute's soft tone, 
Touch'd a wild note, and all between 
Thought of the bower of hawthorns green. 
Her golden hair stream'd free Irom band, 
Her fair cheek rested on her hand. 
Her blue eyes sought the west afar, 
For lovers love the western star- 

XXV. 

Is yon the star, o'er Penchryst Pen, 

Tliat rises slowly to her ken. 

And, spreading broad its wavering light. 

Shakes its loose tresses on the night t 

Is yon red glare the western star ? — 

O, 't is the beacon-blaze of war ! 

Scarce could she draw her tighten'd breath, 

For well she knew the fire of death ' 

XXVI. 

The Warder view'd it blazing strong, 
And blew his vvar-note loud and long, 
Till, at the high and haughty sound, 
Rock, wood, and river rung around 
Tlie blast alarm'd the festal hall. 
And startled forth the warriors all , 



* This was called the cure by sympathy. 
Sir Kenelm Digby was wont occasionally to 
practise it. 



Far downward, in the castle-yard. 
Full many a torch and cresset glared ; 
And helms and plumes, confusedly toss'd, 
Were in the blaze half-seen, half-lost ; 
And spears in wild disorder shook, 
Like reeds beside a frozen brook. 

XXVII. 

The Seneschal, whose silver hair 
Was redden'd by the torches' glare, 
Stood in the midst, with gesture proud. 
And issued forth his mandates loud • 
'' On Penchryst glows a bale! of rtre. 
And three are kindling on Pries thaugli 
swire ; 

Ride out, ride out, 

The foe to scout ! 
Mount, mount for Branksome,]: every man. 
Thou, Todrig, warn the Johnstone clan, 

That ever are true and stout — 
Ye need not send to Liddesdale ; 
For when they see the blazing bale, 
Elliots and Armstrongs never fail. — 
Ride, Alton, ride, for death and life ! 
And warn the Warder of the strife, 
Voung Gilbert, let our beacon blaze, 
Our kin, and clan, and friends to raise." 

XXVIII. 

Fair Margaret from the turret head. 
Heard, far below, the coursers' tread. 

While loud the harness rung. 
As to their seats, with clamor dread, 

The ready horsemen sprung : 
And trampling hoofs, and iron coats, 
And leaders' voices, mingled notes. 
And out ! and out I 
In hasty route. 

The horsemen gallop'd forth ; 
Dispersing to the south to scout. 

And east, and west, and north. 
To view their coming enemies, 
And warn their vassals and allies. 

XXIX 

The ready page, with hurried hand. 
Awaked the need-fire's § slumbering brand, 

And ruddy blush'd the heaven : 
For a sheet of flame, from the turret high. 
Waved like a blood-flag on the sky. 

All flaring and uneven ; 
And soon a score of fires, I ween. 
From height, and hill, and cliff, were seen ; 



t A Horder beacon. 

X ]\Jo7ait for Branksome was the gathering 
word of the Scots. 

§ Seed-fire., beacon. 





SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Each with warlike tidings fraught ; 
Each from each the signal caught ; 
Each after each they glanced to sight, 
As stars arise upon the night. 
They gleam'd on many a dusky tarn,* 
Haunted by the lonely earn ; f 
On many a cairn's gray pyramid, 
Where urns of mighty chiefs lie hid ; ^^ 
Till high Dunedin the blazes saw, 
From Soltra and Dumpender Law ; 
And Lothian heard the Regent's order. 
That all sho ild bowne | them for the 
Border. 

XXX. 

The livelong night in Branksome rang 

The cea'.eless sound of steel ; 
The castle-beil, with backward clang, 

Sent forth the larum peal ; 
Was frequent heard the heavy jar, 
Where massy stone and iron bar 
Were piled en echoing keep and tower. 
To whelm the foe with deadly shower ; 
Was frequent heard the changing guard. 
And watchword from the sleepless ward ; 
While, wearied by the endless din, 
Blood-hound and ban-dog yell'd within. 

XXXI. 

The noble Dame, amid the broil. 
Shared the gray Seneschal's high toil, 
And spoke of danger with a smile ; 
Cheer'd the young knights, and council 

sage 
Held with the chiefs of riper age. 
No tidings of the foe were brought, 
Nor of his numbers knew they aught, 
Nor what in time of truce he sought. 

Some said, that there were thousands ten ; 
And others ween'd that it was nought 

But Leven Clans, or Tynedale men, 
Who came to gather in black-mail ; § 
And Liddesdale, with small avail, 

Might drive them lightly back agen. 
So pass'd the an.xious night away. 
And welcome was the peep of day. 



Ceased the high sound — the listening 

throng 
Applaud the Master of the Song; 
And marvel much, in helpless age. 
So hard should be his pilgrimage. 



* Tarn, a mountain lake. 

t Earn, a Scottish eagle. 

t Boivne, make ready. 

§ Protection money exacted by freebooters 



Had he no friend— no daughter dear, 
His wandering toil to share and cheer; 
No son to be his father's stay. 
And guide him on the rugged way ? 
" Ay, once he hail — but he was dead ! '" 
Upon the harp he stoop'd his head. 
And busied himself the strings withal. 
To hide the tear that fain would fall. 
In solemn measiu-e, soft and slow. 
Arose a father's notes of woe. 



CANTO FOURTH. 



Sweet Teviot ! on thy silver tide 

The glaring bale-fires blaze no more; 
No longer steel-clad warriors ride 

Along thy wild and willow'd shore ; 
Where'er thou wind'st, by dale or hill, 
All, all is peaceful, all is still. 

As if thy waves, since Time was bom, 
Since first they roll'd upon the Tweed, 
Had only heard the shepherd's reed. 

Nor started at the bugle-hom. 
11. 
Unlike the tide of human time, 

Which, though it change in ceaseless 
flow. 
Retains each grief, retains each crime 

Its earliest course was doom'd to know, 
And, darker as it downward bears. 
Is str.in'd with past and present tears. 

Low as that tide has ebb'd with me. 
It still reflects to Memory's eye 
The hour my brave, my only boy, 

Fell by the side of great Dundee. || 
Why, when the volleying musket play'd 
Against the bloody Highland blade, 
Why was not I beside him laid ! — 
Enough — he died the death of fame ! 
Enough — he died with conquering Graeme. 



Now over Border, dale, and fell, 

Full wide and far was terror spread; 
For pathless marsh, and mountain cell, 

The peasant left his lowly shed.--* 
The frighten'd flocks and herds were pent 
Beneath the peel's rude battlement; 
A nd maids and matrons dropp'd the tear. 
While ready v>'arriors seized tlie spear. 



II Claverhouse, Viscount of Dundee, slain in 
the battle of Killicrankie. 






THE LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



^3 



From Branksome's towers, the watchman's 

eye 
Dun wreatl.s of distant smoke can spy, 
Which, curling in the rising sun, 
Show'd southern ravage was begun. 



Now loud the heedful gate-ward cried — 
" Prepare ye all for IdIows and blood ! 
Watt Tinlinn,25 from the Liddel-side^, 

Comes wading througii the fiood. 
Full oft the Tynedale snatchers knork 
At his lone gaie, and prove the lock ; 
It was but last St. Barnabright* 
They sieged him a whole summer nighv. 
But flod at morning ; well they knew, 
In vain he never twang'd the yew. 
Right sharp has been the evening shower, 
That drove him from his Liddel tower ; 
And by my faith," the gate-ward said, 
" I think 'twill prove a" Warden-Raid." f 



While thus he spoke, the bold yeoman 

Enter'd the echoing barbican. 

He led a small and shaggy nag. 

That through a bog, from hag to hag,t 

Could bound like any Billhope stag. 

It bore his wife and children twain ; 

A half-clothed serf § was all their train ; 

His wife, stout, ruddy, and dark-brow'd. 

Of silver brooch and bracelet proud, 

Laugh'd to her friends among the crowd. 

He was of stature passing tall. 

But sparely forni'd, and lean withal ; 

A batter'd morion on his brow ; 

A leather jack, as fence enow, 

On his broad shoulders loosely hung ; 

A border axe behind was slung ; 

His spear, six Scottish ells in length, 
Seem'd newly dyed with gore ; 

His shafts and bow, of wondrous strength. 
His hardy partner bore. 

VI. 

Thus to the Ladye did Tinlinn show 
The tidings of the English foe :— 
" Belted Will Howard ^^ jg marching here. 
And hot Lord Dacre ^^ with many a spear, 



*St. Barnabas's day, June ii. It is sti.. 
called Barnaby Brigln in Hants, from its being 
generally a bright sunshiny day. 

t An inroad commanded bv the Warden in 
person. 

X The broken ground in a bog. 

§ Bondsman. fast 



.And all the German hacUbut-men,^^ 
Who have long lain at Askerten : 
They cross'd the Liddel at curfew hour, 
And burn'd my little lonely tower : 
The fiend receive their souls therefor I 
It had not been burnt this year and more. 
Barn-yard and dwelling, blazing bright, 
Served to guide me onniy flight ; 
But I was chased the livelong night. 
Black John of Akeshaw, and Fergus 

Graeme, 
Fast upon my traces came. 
Until I tiirn'd at Priesthaugh Scrogg, 
And shot their horses in the bog, 
Slew Fergus with my lance outright — 
I had him long at high despite : 
He drove my cows last Pastern's night.''|I 



Now weary scouts from Liddesdalc, 

Fast hurrying in, confirm'd the tale ; 

As far as they coidd judge by ken, 

Three hours would bring to Teviot's 
strand 
Three thousand armed Englishmen— 
Meanwhile, full many a warlike band, 
From Teviot, .^il^and Ettrick shade, 
Came in, their Chief's defence to aid. 
There was saddling and mounting in 
haste. 
There was pricking o'er moor and lea ; 
He that was last at the trysting place 
Was but lightly held of his gaye ladye. 



From fair St. Mary's silver wave, 

From dreary Gamescleugh's dusky height, 
His ready lances Thirlestane brave 

Array'd beneath a banner bright. 
The treasured fleur-de-luce he claims. 
To wreathe his shield, since royal James, 
Encamp'dby Fala's mossy wave. 
The proud distinction grateful gave, 

For faith 'mid feudal jars ; 
What time, save Thirlestane alone, 
Of Scotland's stubborn barons none 

Would march to southern wars ; 
And hence, m fair remembrance worn. 
Yon sheaf of spears his crest has borne ; 
Hence his high motto shines reveal'd — 
" Ready, aye ready," for the field.-9 



Shrove Tuesday, the eve of the great Spring 






SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



An aged Knight, to danger steel'd, 

Witli many a moss-trooper, came on : 
And azure in a golden field, 
The stars and crescent graced his shield. 

Without the bend of Murdieston. 
Wide lay his lands round Oakwood tower, 
And wide round haunted Castle-Ower ; 
High over Borthwick's mountain flood. 
His wood-embosom' d mansion stood, 
In the dark glen, so deep below. 
The herds of plunder'd England low; 
His bold retainers' daily food. 
And bought with danger, blows, and blood. 
Marauding chief ! his sole delight 
The moonlight raid, the morning fight ; 
Not even the Flower of Yarrow's charms, 
In youth, might tame his rage for arms ; 
And still, in age, he spurn'd at rest. 
And still his brows the helmet press'd, 
Albeit the blanched locks below 
Were white as Dinlay's spotless snow ; 

Five stately warriors drew the sword 
Before their father's band ; 

A braver knight than Harden's lord 
Ne'er belted on a brand * 

X. 

Scotts of Eskdale, a stalwart band. 

Came trooping down the Todshawhill ; 
By the sword they won their land. 

And by the sword they hold it still. 
Harken, Ladye, to the tale. 
How thy sires won fair Eskdale. — 
Earl Morton was lord of that valley fair. 
The Beattisons were his vassals there. 
The Earl was gentle, and mild of mood, 
The vassals were warlike, and fierce, and 

rude ; 
High of heart, and haughty of word. 
Little they reck'd of a tame liege lord. 
The Earl into fair Eskdale came, 
Homage and sei?nory to claim ; 
Of Gilbert the" Galliard a heriot j he 

sought. 
Saying, "Give thy best steed, as a vassal 

ought." 
— " Dear to me is my bonny white steed. 
Oft has he help'd me at pinch of need ; 
Lord and Earl though thou be, I trow, 
I can rein Bucksfoot better than thou." 



* This knight was the ancestor of Sir Walter 
Scott. 

t The feudal superior, in certain cases, was 
entitled to the best hoj-se of the vassal, in name 
of Heriot, or Herezeld. 



Word on word gave fuel to fire. 

Till so highly blazed the Beattisons' ire, 

But that the Earl the flight had ta'en, 

The vassals there their lord had slain. 

Sore he plied both whip and spur. 

As he urged his steed through Eskdale 

muir ; 
And it fell down a weary weight, 
Just on the threshold of Branksome gate. 



The Earl was a wrathful man to see, 
Full fain avenged would he be, 
In haste to Branksome's Lord he spoke, 
Saying — " Take these traitors to thy yoke: 
For a cast of hawks, and a purse of gold. 
All Eskdale I'll sell thee, to have and 

hold ; 
Beshrew thy heart, of the Beattisons' clan 
If thou leavest on Eske a landed man ; 
But spare Woodkerrick's lands alone. 
For he lent me his horse to escape upon." 
A glad man then was Branksome bold, 
Down he flung him the purse of gold ; 
To Eskdale soon he spurr'd amain. 
And with him five hundred riders has ta'en. 
He left his merrymen in the mist of the 

hill, 
And bade them hold them close and still ; 
And alone he wended to the plain. 
To meet with the Galliard and all his train. 
To Gilbert the Galliard thus he said : — 
" Know thou me for thy liege-lord and 

head, 
Deal not with me as with Morton tame. 
For Scotts play best at the roughest game. 
Give me in peace my heriot due. 
Thy bonny white steed, or thou shalt rue, 
If my horn I three times wind, 
Eskdale shall long have the sound in mind." 



Loudly the Beattison laugh'd in scorn ; 
" Little care we for thy winded horn. 
Ne'er shall it be the Galliard's lot. 
To yield his steed to a haughty Scott. 
Wend thou to Branksome back on foot. 
With rusty spur and miry boot." — 
He blew his bugle so loud and hoarse, 
That the dun deer started at fair Craik- 

cross : 
He blew again so loud and clear. 
Through the gray mountain-mist there did 

lances appear : 
And the third blast rang with such a din, 







THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



25 



That the echoes answer'd from Pentoun- 

linn, 
And all his riders came lightly in. 
Then had you seen a gallant shock, 
When saddles were emptied, and lances 

broke ! 
For each scornful word the Galliard had 

said, 
A Beattison on the field was laid. 
His own good sword the Chieftam drew, 
And he bore the Galliard through and 

througli : 
Where the Beattison's blood mix'd with 

the rill. 
The Galliard's-Haugh men call it still. 
The Scotts have scatter'd the Beattison clan, 
In Eskdale they left but one landed man. 
The valley of Eske, from the mouth to the 

source. 
Was lost and won for that bonny white 

horse. 



Whitslade the Hawk, and Headshaw came, 
And warriors more than I may name ; 
From Yarrow-cleugh to Hindhaugh-swair, 

From Woodhouselie to Chester-glen, 
Troop'd man and horse, and bow and spear ; 

Their gathering word was Bellenden.so 
And better hearts o'er Border sod 
To siege or rescue never rode. 

The Ladye mark'd the aids come in. 

And high her heart of pride arose : 
She bade her youthful son attend. 
That he might know his father's friend, 

And learn to face his foes. 
" The boy is ripe to look on war ; 
I saw him draw a cross-bow stiff, 
And his true arrow struck afar 
The raven's nest upon the cliff ; 
The red cross, on a southern breast, 
Is broader than a raven's nest : 
Thou, Whitslade, shalt teach him his 

weapon to wield, 
And o'er him hold his father's shield." 



Well may you think, the wily page 
Cared not to face the Ladye sage. 
He counterfeited childish fear. 
And shriek'd and shed full many a tear. 
And moan'd and plain'd in manner wild. 

The attendants to the Ladye told, 

Some fairy, sure had changed the child. 

That wont to be so free and bold. 



Then wrathful was the noble dame ; 
She blush'd blood-red for very shame . — 
" Hence ! ere the clan his faintness view ; 
Hence with the weakling to Buccleuch ! — 
Wat Tinlinn, thou shalt be his guide 
To Rangleburn's lonely side. — 
Sure some fell fiend has cursed our line, 
That coward should e'er be son of mine ! " 



A heavy task Wat Tinlinn had. 
To guide the counterfeited lad. 
Soon as the palfrey felt the weight 
Of that ill-omen'd elfish freight. 
He bolted, sprung, and rear'd amain, 
Nor heeded bit, nor curb, nor rein. 
It cost Wat Tinlinn mickle toil 
To drive him but a Scottish mile ; 

But as a shallow brook they cross'd, 
The elf, amid the running stream. 
His figure changed, like form in dream. 
And fled, and shouted, " Lost ! lost ! 
lost ! " 
Full fast the urchin ran and laugh'd, 
But faster still a cloth-yard shaft 
Whistled from startled Tinlinn's yew, 
And pierced his shoulder through and 

through. 
Although the imp might not be slain. 
And though the wound soon heai'd again. 
Vet as he ran, he yell'd for pain ; 
And Wat of Tinlinn, much aghast. 
Rode back to Branksome fiery fast. 



Soon on the hill's steep verge he stood, 
That looks o'er Branksome's towers and 

wood ; 
And martial murmurs, from below, 
Proclaim'd the approaching southern foe. 
Through the dark wood, in mingled tone, 
Were Border pipes and bugles blown . 
The coursers' neighing he could ken, 
A measured tread of marching men , 
While broke at times the solemn hum. 
The Almayn's solemn kettle-drum ; 
And banners tall, of crimson sheen, 

Above the copse appear ; 
And, glistening through the hawthorns 
green. 
Shine helm, and shield, and spear. 



Light forayers, first, to view the ground, 
Spurr'd their fleet coursers loosely round ■ 







26 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Behind, in close array, and fast, 

The Kendal archers, all in green, 
Obedient to the bugle blast. 

Advancing from the wood were seen. 
To back and guard the archer band. 
Lord Dacre's bill-men were at hand : 
A hardy race, on Irthing bred, 
With kirtles white, and crosses red, 
Array'd beneath the banner tall, 
That stream'd o'er Acre's conquer'd wall ; 
And minstrels, as they march'd in order, 
Play'd " Noble Lord Dacre, he dwells on 
the Border." 

XVIII. 

Behind the English bill and bow, 
The mercenaries, firm and slow. 

Moved on to fight, in dark array. 
By Conrad led of Wolfenstein, 
VVho brought the band from distant Rhine, 

And sold their blood for foreign pay. 
The camp their home, their law the sword. 
They knew no country, own'd no lord : 
They were not arm'dlike England's sons, 
But bore the levin-darting guns ; 
Buff-coats, all frounced and broider'd o'er. 
And morsin-horns * and scarfs they wore ; 
Each better knee was bared, to aid 
The warriors in the escalade ; 
All, as they march'd, in rugged tongue, 
Songs of Teutonic feuds they sung. 



But louder still the clamor grew. 
And louder still the minstrels blew. 
When, from beneath the greenwood tree. 
Rode forth Lord Howard's chivalry ; 
His men-at-arms, with glaive and spear. 
Brought up the battle's glittering rear, 
There many a youthful knight, full keen 
To gain his spurs, in arms was seen ; 
Witli favor in his crest, or glove. 
Memorial of his ladye-love. 
So rode they forth in fair array. 
Till full their lengthen'd lines display ; 
Then call'd a halt, and made a stand. 
And cried, " St. George, for merry Ena 
land ! " 



Now every English eye, intent 
On Branksome's armed towers were bent ; 
So near they were, that they might know 
The straining harsh of each cross-bow ; 

" Pow 'er flasks. 



On battlement and bartizan 
Gleam'd axe, and spear, and partisan ; 
Falcon and culver,t on each tower. 
Stood prompt their deadly hail to shower ; 
And flashing armor frequent broke 
From eddying whirls of sable smoke, 
Where upon tower and turret head. 
The seething pitch and molten lead 
Reek'd, like a witch's caldron red. 
While yet they gaze, the bridges fall, 
The wicket opes, and from the wall 
Rides forth the hoary Seneschal. 



Armed he rode, all save the head. 

His white beard o'er his breast-plate spread ; 

Unbroke by age, erect his seat. 

He ruled his' eager courser's gait ; 

Forced him, with chasten'd fire, to prance, 

And, high curvetting, slow advance : 

In sign of truce, his better hand 

Display'd a peeled willow wand ; 

His squire, attending in the rear. 

Bore high a gauntlet on a spear.j 

When they espied him riding out. 

Lord Howard and Lord Dacre stout 

Sped to the front of their array, 

To hear what this old knight should say. 



" Ye English warden lords, of you 
Demands the Ladye of Buccleuch, 
Wliy, 'gainst the truce of Border tide. 
In hostile guise ye dare to ride. 
With Kendal bow, and Gilsland brand, 
And all yon mercenary band. 
Upon the bounds of fair Scotland? 
My Ladye redes you swith § return ; 
And, if but one poor straw you burn, 
Or do our towers so much molest. 
As scare one swallow from her nest, 
St. Mary ! but we'll light a brand 
Shall warm your hearths in Cumberland.' 



A wrathful man was Dacre's lord, 
But calmer Howard took the word ; 



t Ancient pieces of artillery. 

% A glove upon a lance was the emblem of 
faith among the ancient Borderers, who were 
wont, when any one broke his word, to expose 
this emblem, and proclaim him a faithless vil- 
lain at the first Border meeting. Tliis cere- 
mony was much dreaded. — See Lesley. 

§ STvitk, instantly- 






" In sign of truce his better hand 
Disi)lay'd a peeled willow-wand." 



Page 26. 





THE LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



27 



" May't please thy Dame, Sir Seneschal, 
To seek the castle's outward wall, 
Our pursuivant-at-arms shall show 
Both why we came, and v/lien we go."- 
The message sped, the noble Dame 
To the wall's outward circle came ; 
Each chief around lean'd on his spear, 
To see the pursuivant appear. 
All /n Lord Howard's livery dress'd. 
The lion argent deck'd his breast ; 
He led a boy of blooming hue — 
O sight to meet a mother's view ! 
It was the heir of great Buccleuch. 
Obeisance meet the herald made. 
And thus his master's will he said :— 



" It irks, high Dame, my noble Lords, 
'Gainst ladye fair to draw their swords : 
But yet they may not tamely see, 
All through the Western Wardenry, 
Your law-contemning kinsmen ride. 
And burn and spoil the I?order-side ; 
And ill beseems your rank and birth 
To make your towers a flemens-firth.* 
We claim from thee William of Deloraine, 
That he may suffer march-treason 3' pain. 
It was but last St. Cuthbert's even 
He prick'd to Stapleton on Leven, 
Harried t the lands of Richard Musgrave, 
And slew his brother by dint of glaive. 
Then, since a lone and widow'd Dame 
These restless riders may not tame. 
Either receive within thy towers 
Two hundred of my master's powers. 
Or straight they sound their warrison,| 
And storm and spoil thy garrison : 
And this fair boy, to London led. 
Shall good King Edward's page be bred." 



He ceased — and loud the boy did cry, 
And stretch'd his little arms on high ; 
Implored for aid each well-known face. 
And strove to seek the Dame's embrace. 
A moment changed that Ladye's cheer, 
Gush'd to her eye the unbidden tear ; 
She gazed upon the leaders round. 
And dark and sad each warrior frown'd ; 
Then, deep within her sobbing breast 
She lock'd the struggling sigh to rest ; 
Unalter'd and collected stood. 
And thus replied, in dauntless mood :— 



* An asylum for outlaws. 
t Plundered. X Note of assault. 



" Say to your Lords of high emprize, 

Who war on women and on boys. 

That either William of Deloraine 

Will cleanse him, by oath, of march-treason 

stain. 
Or else he will the combat take 
'Gainst Musgrave, for his honor's sake. 
No knight in Cumberland so good, 
But William may count with him kin and 

blood. 
Knighthood he took of Douglas' sword,^^ 
When English blood swell'.d Ancram's 

ford ; 33 
And but Lord Dacre's steed was wight. 
And bare him ably in the flight, 
Himself had seen him dubb'd a knight. 
For the young heir of Branksome's line, 
God be his aid, and God be mine ; 
Through me no friend shall meet his 

doom ; 
Here, while I live, no foe finds room. 
Then, if thy Lords their purpose urge, 

Take our defiance loud and high ; 
Our slogan is their lykewake § dirge, 

Our moat, the grave where they shall 
lie." 



Proud she look'd round, applause to claim — 
Then lighten'd Thirlestane's eye of flame ; 

His bugle Wat of Harden blew ; 
Pensils and pennons wide were flung. 
To heaven the Border slogan rung, 

" St. Mary for the young Buccleuch ! " 
The English war-cry answer'd wide, 

And forward bent each southern spear ; 
Each Kendal archer made a stride. 

And drew the bowstring to his ear ; 
Each minstrel's war-note loud was blown : — 
But, ere a gray-goose shaft had flown, 

A horseman gallop'd from the rear. 

XXVIII. 

" Ah ! noble Lords ! " he breathless said, 
" What treason has your march betray'd .' 
What make you here, from aid so far, 
Before you walls, around you war ? 
Your foemen triumph in the thought, 
That in the toils the lion's caught. 
Already on dark Ruberslaw 
The Douglas holds his weapon-schaw ; || 



§ Watching a corpse all night. 
II }i'eapoii-sclia7v—m\X\X2^ry eathering of a 
chief's followers, or the army of a county. 







^^, 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The lances, waving in liis train, 

Clotlie the dun heath hke autumn grain ; 

And on the Liddel's northern strand, 

To bar retreat to Cumberland, 

Lord Maxwell ranks his merry-men good, 

Beneath the eagle and tlie rood ; 

And Jedwood, Eske, and Teviotdale, 

Have to proud Angus come ; 
And all the Merse and Lauderdale 
Have risen with haughty Home. 
An exile fiom Northumberland, 

In Liddesdale I've wander'd long ; 
But still my heart was with merry Eng 
land. 
And cannot brook my country's wrong 
And hard I've spurr'd all night to show 
The mustering of the coming foe." 



"And let them come!" fierce Uacre cried ; 
" For soon yon crest, my father's pride, 
That swept the shores of Judah's sea, 
And waved in gales of Galilee, 
From Branksome's highest towers dis- 
play 'd, 
Shall mock the rescue's lingering aid!— 
Level each harquebuss on row ; 
Draw, merry archers, draw the bow ; 
Up, bill-men, to the walls, and cry, 
Dacre for England, win or diel " 



" Yet hear," quoth Howard, " calmly hear. 

Nor deem my words the words of fear : 

For who, in field or foray slack, 

Sav/ the blanche lion e'er fall back ? ^'■ 

But thus to risk our Border flower 

In strife against a kingdom's power, 

Ten thousand Scots 'gainst thousands 

three, 
Certes, were desperate policy. 
Nay, take the terms the Ladye made, 
Ere conscious of the advancing aid : 
Let Musgrave meet fierce Deloraine 
In single fight, and, if he gain. 
He gains for us ; but if he's cross'd, 
^Tis but a single warrior lost : 
The rest, retreating as they came, 
Avoid defeat, and death, and shame." 



Ill could the haughty Dacre brook 
His brother Warden's sage rebuke ; 
And yet his forward step he staid, 
And slow and sullenly obey'd. 



But ne'er again the Border side 
Did these two lords in friendship ride ; 
And this slight discontent, men say, 
Cost blood upon another day. 

XXXII. 

The pursuivant-at-arms again 

Before the castle took his stand ; 
His trumpet call'd, with parleying strain 

The leaders of the Scottish band ; 
And he defied, in Musgrave's right, 
Stout Deloraine to single fight; 
A gauntlet at their feet he laid. 
And thus the terms of fight he said : — 
" If in the lists good Musgrave's sword 

Vanquish the Knight of Deloraine, 
Your youthful chieftain, Branksome's Lord 

Shall hostage for his clan remain : 
If Deloraine foil good Musgrave, 
The boy his liberty shall have. 

Howe'er it falls, the English band, 
Unharming Scots,, by Scots unharm'd, 
In peaceful march, likemtn unarm'd. 

Shall straight retreat to Cumberland." 



Unconscious of the near relief. 

The proffer pleased each Scottish ch.ief, 

Though much the Ladye sage gainsay'd 
For though their hearts were brave and 

true. 
From Jedwood's recent sack they knew, 

How tardy was the Regent's aid: 
And you may guess the noble Dame 

Durst not the secret prescience own. 
Sprung from the art she might not name, 

By which the coming help was known. 
Closed was the compact, and agreed 
That lists should be enclosed with speed, 

Beneath the castle, on a lawn : 
They fix'd the morrow for the strife. 
On foot, with Scottisli axe and knife. 

At the fourth hour from peep of dawn 
When Diloraine, from sickness freed. 
Or else a champion in his stead. 
Should for himself and chieftain stand. 
Against stout Musgrave, hand to hand. 

XXXIV. 

I know right well, that, in their lay. 
Full many minstrels sing and say. 

Such combat should be made on horse 
On foaming steed, in full career 
With brand to aid, when as the spear 

Should shiver in tlie course : 
But he, the jovial Harper, taught 
Me, yet a youth, how it was fought. 






THE LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



29 



In guise vvliich now I say ; 
He knew each ordinance and clause 
Of Black Lord Archibald's battle-laws, 

In the old Douglas' day. 
He brook'd not, he, that scoffing tongue 
Should tax his minstrelsy with wrong, 

Or call his song untrue : 
For this, when they the goblet plied. 
And such rude taunt had chafed his pride, 

The Bard of Reull he slew. 
On Teviot's side, in fight they stood, 
And tuneful hands were stain'd with blood ; 
Where still the thorn's white branches 

wave. 
Memorial o'er his rival's £;>-ave. 



Why should I tell the rigid doom, 
That dragg'd my master to his tomb ; 

How Ousenam's maidens tore their hair, 
Wept till their eyes were dead and dim. 
And wrung their hands for love of him, 

Who died at Jedwood Air? 
He died I — his scholars, one by one. 
To the cold silent grave are gone ; 
And 1, alas ! survive alone, 
To muse o'er rivalries of yore. 
And grieve that 1 shall hear no more 
The strains, witli envy heard before ; 
For, with my minstrel brethren fled. 
My jealousy of song is dead. 



He paused : the listening dames again 
Applaud the hoary Minstrel's strain. 
With many a word of kindly cheer, — 
In pity half, and half sincere, — 
Marvell'd the Duchess how so well 
His legendary song could tell — 
Of ancient deeds, so long forgot ; 
Of feuds, whoje memory was not ; 
Of forests, now laid waste and bare ; 
Of towers, whic.i harbor now the hare : 
Of manners, long since changed and gone ; 
Of chiefs, who under their gray stone 
So long had slept, that fickle Fame 
Had blotted from her rolls their name. 
And twined round some new minion's head 
The fading wreath for which they bled ; 
In sooth, 'twas strange, this old man's verse 
Could call them from their marble hearse. 

The Harper smiled, well-pleased ; for 
ne'er 
Was flattery lost on poet's ear : 
A pimple race ! they waste their toil 
For the \ain tribute of a smile ; 



E'en when in age their flame expires. 
Her dulcet breath can fan its fires : 
Their drooping fancy wakes at praise, 
.•\nd strives to trim the short-lived blaze. 

Smiled then, well-pleased, the Aged Man, 
And thus his tale continued ran. 



CANTO FIFTH. 



Call it not vain : — they do not err, 
Who say, that when the Poet dies. 

Mute Nature mourns her worshpiper, 
And celebrates his obsequies : 

Who say, tall cliff, and cavern lone, 

For the depaited Bard make moan ; 

That mountains weep in crystal rill ; 

That flowers in tears of balm distil ; 

Through his loved groves that breezes sigh. 

And oaks, in deeper groan, reply ; 

And rivers teach their rushing wave 

To murmur dirges round his grave. 

n. 

Not that, in sooth, o'er mortal urn 
Tliose things inanimate can mourn ; 
But that the stream, the wood, the gale, 
Is vocal with the plaintive wail 
Of those, who, else forgotten long, 
Lived in the poet's faithful song. 
And, with the poet's parting breath. 
Whose memory feels a second death. 
The Maid's pale shade, who wails her lot, 
That love, true love, should be forgot. 
From rose and hawthorn shakes the tear 
Upon the gentle Minstrel's bier : 
The phantom Knight, his glory fled. 
Mourns o'er the field he heap'd with dead ; 
Mounts the wild blast that sweeps amain, 
And shrieks along the battle-plain. 
The Chief, whose antique crownletlong 
-Still sparkled in the feudal song. 
Now, from the mountain's misty tlirone,, 
Sees, in the thanedom once his own, 
His ashes undistinguish'd lie. 
His place, his power, his memory die; 
His groans the lonely caverns fill, 
His tears of rage impel the rill : 
k\\ mourn the Minstrel's harp unstrung, 
Their name unknown, their praise unsung 

III. 
Scarcely the hot assault was staid. 
The terms of truce were scarcely made^ 



C 15 ^^ 





3° 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



When they could spy from Branksome's 

towers 
The advancing march of martial powers. 
Thiclc clouds of dust afar appear'd, 
And trampling steeds were faintly heard ; 
Bright spears, above the columns dun, 
Glanced momentary to the sun : 
And feudal banners fair display'd 
The bands that moved to Branksome's aid. 



Vails not to tell each hardy clan, 

From the fair Middle Marches came ; 
The Bloody Heart blazed in the van, 

Announcing Douglas, dreaded name ! ^^ 
Vails not to tell what steeds did spurn. 
Where the Seven Spears of Wedderburne * 

Their men in battle-order set ; 
And Swinton laid the lance in rest, 
That tamed of yore the sparkling crest 

Of Clarence's Plantagenet.^^ 
Nor list I say what hundreds more. 
From the rich Merse and Lammermore, 
And Tweed's fair borders, to the war. 
Beneath the crest of Old Dunbar, 

And Hepburn's mingled banners come, 
Down the steep mountain glittering far. 

And shouting still, " A Home ! a 
Home ! " 3^ 



Now squire and knight, from Branksome 

sent, 
On many a courteous message went ; 
To every chief and lord they paid 
Meet thanks for prompt and powerful aid ; 
And told them, — how a truce was made, 
And how a day of fight was ta'en 
'Twixt Musgrave and stout Deloraine ; 

And how the Ladye pray'd them dear, 
That all would stay the fight to see. 
And deign, in love and courtesy, 
To taste of Branksome cheer. 
Nor, while they bade to feast each Scot, 
Were England's noble lords forgot. 
Himself, the hoary Seneschal, 
Rode forth, in seemly terms to call 
Those gallant foes to Branksome Hall. 
Accepted Howard, than whom knight 
Was never dubb'd more bold in fight ; 
Nor, when from war and armor free, 
More famed for stately courtesy ; 



* Sir David Home of Wedderburn, who was 
slain in the fatal battle of Flodden, left seven 
sons, who were called the Seven Spears of 
Wedderburne. 



But angry Dacre rather chose 
In his pavilion to repose. 



Novi', noble Dame, perchance you ask, 

How these two hostile armies met.? 
Deeming it were no easy task 

To keep the truce which here was seti 
Where martial spirits, all on fire. 
Breathed only blood and mortal ire. — 
By mutual inroads, mutual blows, 
By habit, and by nation, foes. 

They met on Teviot's strand ; 
They met and sate them mingled down, 
Without a threat, without a frown, 

As brothers meet in foreign land : 
The hands, the spear that lately grasp'd, 
Still in the mailed gauntlet clasp'd. 

Were interchanged in greeting dear ; 
Visors were raised, and faces shown, 
And many a friend, to friend made known, 

Partook of social cheer. 
Some drove the jolly bowl about ; 

With dice and draughts some chased the 
day ; 
And some, with many a merry shout, 
In riot, revelry, and rout. 

Pursued the foot-ball play. 



Yet, be it known, had bugles blown, 

Or sign of war been seen. 
Those bands, so fair together ranged, 
Those hands, so frankly interchanged, 

Had dyed with gore the green : 
The merry shout by Teviot-side 
Had sunk in war-cries wild and wide, 

And in the groan of death : 
.And whingers t now in friendship bare, 
The social meal to part and share. 

Had found a bloody sheath. 
'Twixt truce and war, such sudden change 
Was not infrequent, nor held strange. 

In the old Border-day : ^^ 
But yet on Branksome's towers and town, 
In peaceful merriment, sunk down 

The sun's declining ray. 



The blithesome signs of wassail gay 
Decay'd not with the dying day ; 
Soon through the latticed windows tall 
Of lofty Branksome's lordly hall, 



t Large knives. 




7=1^- 






THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



31 



Divided square by shafts of stone, 
Huge flakes of ruddy '.ustre shone ; 
Nor less the gilded rafters rang 
With merry harp and beakers' clang ; 
And frequent, on the darkening plain, 
Loud hollo, whoop, or whistle ran. 
As bands, their stragglers to regain, 
Give the shrill watchword of their 
clan ; 39 
And revellers, o'er their bowls, proclaim 
Douglas or Dacre's conquering name. 



Less frequent heard, and fainter still, 

At length the various clamors died : 
And you might hear, from Branksome hill. 

No sound but Teviot's rushing tide ; 
Pave when the changing sentinel 
The challenge of his watch could tell ; 
And save where, through the dark pro- 
found, 
The clanging axe and hammer's sound 

Rung from the nether lawn ; 
For many a busy hand toil'd there. 
Strong pales to shape, and beams to square. 
The lists' dread barriers to prepare 

Against the morrow's dawn. 



Margaret from hall did soon retreat, 

Despite the Dame's reproving eye ; 
Nor mark'd she, as she left her seat, 

Full many a stifled sigh ; 
For many a noble warrior strove 
To win the Flower of Teviot's love, 

And many a bold ally, — 
With throbbing head and anxious heart. 
All in her lonely bower apart. 

In broken sleep she lay ; 
By times, from silken couch she rose ; 
While yet the banner'd hosts repose, 

She view'd the dawning day ; 
Of all the hundreds sunk to rest. 
First woke the loveliest and the best. 



he gazed upon the inner court, 
Which in the tower's tall shadow lay ; 
Where coursers" clang, and stamp, and 
snort. 
Had rung the livelong yesterday ; 
Now still as death ; till stalking slow, — ■ 

The jingling spurs announced his tread, 
A stately warrior pass'd below ; 

But when he raised his plumed head — 
Bless'd Mary ! can it be ? — 



Secure, as if in Ousenam bowers. 
He walks through Branksome's hostile 
towers. 

With fearless step and free. 
She dared not sign, she dared not speak 
Oh ! if one page's slumbers break, 

His blood the price must pay ! 
Not all the pearls Queen Mary wears, 
Not Margaret's yet more precious tears, 

Shall buy his life a day. 



Yet was his hazard small ; for well 
You may bethink you of the spell 

Of that sly urchin page ; 
This to his lord he did impart. 
And made him seem, by glamour art, 

A knight from Hermitage. 
Unchallenged thus, the warder's post. 
The court, unchallenged, thus he cross'd, 

For all the vassalage : 
But O ! what magic's quaint disguise 
Could blind fair Margaret's azure eyes ! 

She started from her seat ; 
While with surprise and fear she stroVe, 
And both could scarcely master love- 
Lord Henry's at her feet. 



Oft have I mused, what purpose bad 
That foul malicious urchin had 

To bring this meeting round ; 
For happy love's a heavenly sight, 
And by a vile malignant sprite 

In such no joy is found , 
And oft I've deem'd, perchance he thought 
Their erring passion might have wrought 

Sorrow, and sin, and shame ; 
And death to Cranstoun's gallant Knight, 
And to the gentle ladye bright. 

Disgrace, and loss of fame. 
But earthly spirit could not toll 
The heart of them t'lat loved so well. 
True love's the gift which God has given 
To man alone beneath the heaven ; 

It is not fantasy's hot fire 
Whose wishes, soon as granted, fly ; 

It liveth not in fierce desire. 

With dead desire it doth not die ; 
It is the secret sympathy, 
The silver link, the silken ti.e. 
Which heart to heart, and mind to mind, 
In body and in soul can bind. — 
Now leave we Margaret and her Knight, 
To tell you of the approaching fight 







32 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



fheir warning blasts tlie bugles blew. 
The pipe's shrill port * aroused each clan : 

n haste, the deadly strife to view, 

The trooping warriors eager ran : 
Thick round the lists their lances stood, 
Like blasted pines in Ettrick wood ; 
To Branksome many a look they threw, 
The combatants' approach to view, 
iVnd bandied many a word of boast. 
About the knight each favor'd most. 



Meantime full anxious was the Dame ; 
For now arose disputed claim. 
Of who should fight for Deloraine, 
'Twixt Harden and 'twixt Thirlestane : 
They 'gan to reckon kin and rent, 
And frowning brow on brow was bent ; 

But yet not long the strife — for, lo ! 
Himself, the Knight of Deloraine, 
Strong, as it seem'd, and free from pain. 

In aiTiior sheath'd from top to toe, 
Appear'd, and craved the combat due. 
The Dame her charm successful knew, 
And the fierce chiefs their claims withdrew. 



When for the lists they sought the plain, 
The stately Ladye's silken rein 

Did noble Howard hold ; 
Unarmed by her side he walk'd, 
And much, in courteous phrase, they talk'd 

Of feats of arms of old. 
Costly his garb — his Flemish ruff 
Fell o'er his doublet, shaped of buff. 

With satin slash'd and lined; 
Tawny his boot, and gold his spur, 
His cloak was all of Poland fur, 

His hose with silver twined ; 
His Bilboa blade, by Marchmeii felt, 
Hung in a broad and studded belt ; 
Hence, in rude phrast, the Borderers still 
Call'd noble Howard, Belted Will. 



Behind Lord Howard ard the Dame, 
Fair Margaret on her palfrey came. 

Whose foot-cloth swept the ground : 
White was her whimple, and her veil, 
And her loose locks a chaplet pale 

Of whitest roses bound ; 
The lordly Angus, by her side. 
In courtesy to cheer her tried ; 



♦ A martial piece of music, adapted to the 
bagpipes. 



Without his aid, her hand in vain 
Had strove to guide her broider'd rein. 
He deem'd she shudder'd at the sight 
Of warriors met for mortal fight ; 
But cause of terror, all imguess'd, 
Was fluttering in her gentle breast, 
When, in their chairs of crimson placed, 
The Dame and slie the barriers graced. 

XVIII. 

Prize of the field, the young Buccleuch, 
\n English kniglit led forth to view; 
Scarce rued the boy his present plight. 
So much he longed to see the fight. 
Within the lists, in knightly pride. 
High Home and haughty Dacre ride ; 
Their leading staffs of steel they wield, 
.^s marshals of the mortal field ; 
While to each knight their care assign'd 
Like vantage of the sun and wind. 
The heralds hoarse did loud proclaim. 
In King and Queen, and Warden's name 

That none, while lasts the strife. 
Should dare, by look, or sisin, or word 
Aid to a champion to afford. 

On peril of his life ; 
.•\nd not a breath the silence broke, 
Till thus the alternate Herald spoke : 

XIX. 
ENGLISH HERALD. 

'' Here standeth Richard of Musgrave, 

Good knight and true, and freely born. 
Amends from Deloraine to crave. 

For foul despiteous scathe and scorn. 
He sayeth, that William of Deloraine 

Is traitor false by Border laws ; 
This with his sword he will maintain. 

So help him God, and his good cause ! ' 
x.x. 

SCOTTISH HER.ALD. 

" Here standeth William of Deloraine, 
Good knight and true, of noble strain, 
Who sayeth, that foul treason's stain. 
Since he bore arms, ne'er soil'd his coat 
And that, so help him God above ! 
He will on Musgrave's body prove, 
He lies most foully in his throat." 

LORD DACRE. 

" Forward, brave champions, to the fight J 
Sound trumpets ! " 

LORD HOME. 

" God defend the right ! " 

Then, Teviot ! how thine echoes rang, 
When bugle-sound and trumpet cLing 





iiiirmnffii nMffliiipMiiMFpnr ■ 




Behind Lord Howard and the Dame 
Fair Margaret on her palfrey came." 

Canto v. 17. 




THE LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



II 



Let loose the martial foes, 
And in mid list with shield poised high, 
And measured step and wary eye, 

The combatants did close. 



Ill would it suit your gentle ear. 

Ye lovely listeners, to hear 

How to the axe the helms did sound, 

And blood pour'd down from many a 

wound ; 
For desperate was the strife and long. 
And either warrior fierce and strong. 
But, were each dame a Hstening knight, 
I well could tell how warriors hght ! _ 
For I have seen wars lightning flashing. 
Seen the claymore with "bayonet clashing, 
Seen through red blood the war-horse 

dashing. 
And scorn'd, amid the reeling strife, 
To yield a step for death or life. — 



'Tis done, 'tis done ! that fatal blow 

Has stretch' d him on the bloody plain ! 
He strives to rise — Brave Musgrave, no ! 

Thence never shalt thou rise again ! 
He chokes in blood — some friendly hand 
Undo the visor's barred band. 
Unfix the gorget's iron clasp, 
And give him room for life to gasp ! — 
O, bootless aid ! — haste, holy Friar, 
Haste- ere the sinner shall expire ! 
Of all his guilt let him be shriven. 
And smooth his path from earth to heaven 



In haste the holy Friar sped ; — 
His naked foot was dyed with red. 

As through the lists he ran ; 
Unmindful of the shouts on high. 
That hail'd th.e conqueror's victory, 

He raised the dying man ; 
Loose waved his silver beard and hair, 
As o'er him he kneel'd down in prayer ; 
.And still the crucifix on high 
He holds before his darkening eye ; 
And still he bends an anxious ear, 
His faltering penitence to hear ; 

Still props him from the bloody sod. 
Still, even when soul and body part. 
Pours ghostly comfort on his heart. 

And bids him trust in God 1 
Unheard he prays ;— the death-pang's o'er ] 
Richard of Musgrave breathes no more. 



As if exhausted in the fight, _ 
Or musing e'er the piteous sight, 

The silent victor stands ; 
His beaver did he not unclasp, 
Mark'd not the shouts, felt not the grasp 

Of gratulating hands. 
When lo ! strange cries of wild surprise 
Mingled with seeming terror, rise 

Among the Scottish bands ; 
And all, amid thethrong'd array, 
In panic haste gave open way 
To a half-naked ghastly man. 
Who downward from the castle ran . 
He cross'd the barriers at a bound. 
And wild and haggard look'd around, 

As dizzy, and in pain ; 
And all, upon the armed ground, 

Knew William of Deloraine ! 
Each lady sprung from seat with speed ; 
Vaulted each marshal from his steed ; 

" And who art thou," they cried, 
" Who hast this battle fought and won ? ''- 
His plumed helm was soon undone — 

" Cranstoun of Teviot-side ! 
For this fair prize I've fought and won."— 
And to the Ladye led her son. 



Full oft the rescued boy she kiss'd. 
And often press'd him to her breast ; 
For, under all her dauntless show, 
Her heart had throbb'd at every blow ; 
Yet not Lord Cranstoun deign'd she greet, 
Though low he kneeled at her feet. 
Me lists not tell what words were made. 
What Douglas, Home, and Howard, said— 

—For Howard was a generous foe — 
And how the clan united pray'd 

The Ladye would the feud forego, 
And deign to bless the nuptial hour 
Of Cranstoun's Lord and Teviot's Flower. 



She look'd to river, look'd to hill. 

Thought on the Spirit's prophecy, 
Then broke her silence stern and still,- 

" Not you, but Fate, has vanquish'd me. 
Their influence kindly stars may shower 
On Teviot's tide and Branksome's tower. 
For pride is quell'd, and love is free." — 
She took fair Margaret by the hand. 
Who, breathless, trembling, scarce mighl 
stand, 





^N 



34 




SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



That hand to Cranstoun's lord gave 
she : — 
" As I am true to thee and thine, 
Do thou be true to me and mine ! 

This clasp of love our bond shall be ; 
For this is your betrothing day, 
And all these noble lords shall stay. 

To grace it with their company." 



All as they left the listed plain. 

Much of the story she did gain ; 

How Cranstoun fought with Deloraine, 

And of his page, and of the Book 

Which from the wounded knight he took ; 

And how he sought her castle high, 

That morn, by help of gramarye ; 

How, in Sir William's armor dight, 

Stolen by his page, while slept the knight, 

He took on him the single fight. 

But half his tale he left unsaid, 

And linger'd till he join'd the maid. — 

Cared not the Ladye to betray 

Her mystic arts in view of day ; 

But well she thought, ere midnight came, 

Of that strange page the pride to tame. 

From his foul hands the Book to save. 

And send it back to Michael's grave. — 

Needs not to tell each tender word 

'Twixt Margaret and 'twixt Cranstoun's 

lord ; 
Nor how she told of former woes. 
And how her bosom fell and rose, 
While he and Musgrave bandied blows. — • 
Needs not these lovers' joys to tell : 
One day, fair maids, you'll know them well. 

XXVIII. 

William of Deloraine, some chance 
Had wakened from his death-like trance ; 

And taught that, in the listed plain, 
Anotlier, in his arms and shield, 
Against tierce Musgrave axe did wield, 

Under the name of Deloraine. 
Hence, to tiie field, unarm'd, he ran, 
And hence his presence scared the clan. 
Who held him for some fleeting wraith,* 
And not a man of blood and breath. 

Not much this new ally he loved. 

Yet, when he saw what hap had proved, 
He greeted him right heartilie : 
He would not waken old debate, 
For he was void of rancorous hate. 

Though rude and scant of courtesy ; 

*The spectral apparition of a living person. 



In raids he spilt but seldom blood, 
Unless when men-at-arms withstood, 
Or, as was meet for deadly feud. 
He ne'er bore grudge for stalwart blow, 
Ta'en in fair fight from gallant foe ; 
And so 'twas seen of him, e'en now. 
When on dead Musgrave he look'd 
down ; 
Grief darken'd on his rugged brow. 
Though half disguised with a frown ; 
And thus, while sorrow bent his head, 
His foeman's epitaph he made. 

XXIX. 

" Now, Richard Musgrave, liest thou here I 

I ween my deadly enemy ; 
For, if I slew thy brother dear, 

Thou slew'st a sister's son to me ; 
And when I lay in dungeon dark. 

Of Naworth Castle, long months three, 
Till ransom'd for a thousand mark. 

Dark Musgrave, it was long of thee. 
And, Musgrave, could our fight be tried. 

And thou wert now alive as I, 
No mortal man should us divide. 

Till one, or both of us, did die : 
Yet rest thee God ! for well I know 
I ne'er shall find a nobler foe. 
In all the northern counties here. 
Whose word is Snaffle, spur, and spear. 
Thou wert the best to follow gear ! 
'Twas pleasure, as we look'd behind. 
To see how thou the chase could'st wind, 
Cheer the dark blood-hound on his way. 
And with the bugle rouse the fray ! 
I'd give the lands of Deloraine, 
Dark Musgrave were alive again.'' 



So mourn'd he, till Lord Dacre's band 
Were bowning back to Cumberland. 
They raised brave Musgrave from the field. 
And Idid him on his bloody shield ; 
On leveird lances, four and four, 
By turns the noble burden bore. 
Before, at times, upon the gale. 
Was heard the Minstrel's plaintive wail ; 
Behind, four priests, in sable stole. 
Sung requiem for the w^arrior's soul : 
Around, the horsemen slowly rode ; 
With trailing pikes the spearmen trode'^ 
And thus the gallant knight they bore, 
Through Liddesdale to Leven's shore ; 
Thence to Holme Coltrame's lofty nave, 
And laid him in his father's grave. 









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r 1 •) 


C !| 1 


_ Tx 




fx 


(. 1 J 


s ■ 1— s 


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r//E LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 35 






The harp's wild notes, though hush'd the 


Still, as I view each well-known scene. 




song' 


Think what is now, and what hath been, 






The mimic march of death prolong ; 


Seems as, to me, of all bereft, 






Now seems it far, and now a-near, 


Sole friends thy woods and streams were 

left ; * 






Now meets, and now ekidcs the ear ; 






Now seems some mountain-side to sweep, 


And thus I love them better still, 






Now faintly dies in valley deep ; 


Even in extremity of ill. 






Seems now as if the Minstrel's wail, 


By Yarrow's streams still let me stray, 






Now tlie sad requiem, loads the gale ; 


Though none should guide my feeble way; 






Last, o'er the warrior's closing grave. 


Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break, 






Rimg the full choir in choral stave. 


Although it chill my wither'd cheek ; 






After due pause, they bade him tell. 


Still lay my head by Teviot Stone, 
Though there, forgotten and alone. 






Why he, who touch'd the harp so well, 
Should thus, with ill-rewarded toil, 


The Bard may draw his parting groan. 






Wander a poor and thankless soil, 


III. 






When the more generous Southern Land 
Would well requite his skilful hand. 


Not scorn'd like me ! to Branksome Hall 
The Minstrels came, at festive call ; 






The Aged Harper, howsoe'er 


Trooping they came, from near and far, 






His only friend, his harp, was dear. 


The jovial priests of mirth and war ; 






Liked not to hear it rank'd so high 


Alike for feast and fight prepared, 






Above his flowing poesy : 


Battle and banquet both they shared. 






Less liked he still, that scornful jeer 


Of late, before each martial clan. 






Misprised the land he loved so dear ; 


They blew their death-note in the van 






High was the sound, as thus again 


But now, for every merry mate. 






The Bard resumed his minstrel strain. 


Rose the portcullis' iron grate ; 










They sound the pipe, they strike the string 
They dance, they revel, and they sing, 








CANTO SLXTH. 


Till the rude turrets shake and ring. 






I. 
Breathes there the man, with soul so 


IV. 

Me lists not at this tide declare 






dead, 


The splendor of the spousal rite, 






Who never to himself hath said. 


How muster' d in the chapel fair 






This is my own, my native land ! 


Both maid and matron, squire and 






Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd. 


knight ; 






As home his footsteps he hath turn'd, 


Me lists not tell of owches rare, 






From wandering on a foreign strand ! 


Of mantles green, and braided hair, 






If such there breathe, go, mark him well ; 


And kirtles furr'd with miniver ; 






For him no Minstrel raptures swell; 


What plumage waved the altar round. 






High tliough his titles, proud his name. 


How spurs and ringing chainlets sound ; 






Boundless his wealth as wish can claim ; 


And hard it were for bard to speak 






Despite those titles, power, and pelf. 


The changeful hue of Margaret's cheek % 






The wretch, concentrated all in self, 


That lovely hue which comes and flies, 






Living, shall forfeit fair renown. 


Asawo and shame alternate rise ! 






And, doubly dying, shall go down 








To the vile dust, from whence he sprung. 


V. 






Unwept, unhonor'd, and unsving. 


Some bards have sung, the Ladye high 
Chapel or altar came not nigh ; 






II. 


Nor durst the rights of spousal grace. 






O Caledonia ! stern and wild, 


So much she fear'd each holy place. 






Meet nurse for a poetic child ! 


False slanders these : — I trust right well 






Land of brown heath and shaggy wood. 


She wrought not by forbidden spell ; ■*° 






Land of the mountain and the flood. 


For mighty words and signs have power 






Land of my sires ! what mortal hand 


O'er sprites in planetary hour : 






Can e'er untie the filial band, 


Yet scarce I praise their venturous part. 






That knits me to thy rugged strand 1 


Who tamper with such dangerous art. 






l> 










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c—t 5 


e 1—5 


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36 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



But this for faithful truth I say, 
The Ladye by the altar stood, 
Of sable velvet her array, 

And on her head a crimson hood, 
With pearls ernbroider'd and entwined, 
Guarded with gold, with ermine lined ; 
A merlin sat upon her wrist ■" 
Held by a leash of silken twist. 



The spousal rites were ended soon : 
'Twas now the merry hour of noon, 
And in the lofty arched hall 
Was spread the gorgeous festival. 
Steward and squire, with heedful haste, 
Marshall'd the rank of every guest ; 
Pages, with ready blade, were there. 
The mighty meal to carve and share . 
O'er capon, heron-shew, and crane. 
And princely peacock's gilded train,-*- 
And o'er the boar head, garnish'd brave, 
And cygnet from St. Mary's wave;* 
O'er ptarmigan and venison, 
The priest had spoke his benison. 
Then rose the riot and the din, 
Above , beneath, without, within ! 
For, from the lofty balcony. 
Rung trumpet, shalm, and psaltery : 
Their clanging bowls old warriors quaffd. 
Loudly they spoke, and loudly laugh'd ; 
Whisper'd young knights, in tone more 

mild. 
To ladies fair, and ladies smiled. 
The hooded hawks, high perch'd on beam. 
The clamor join'd with whistling scream, 
And flapp'd their wings, and shook their 

bells. 
In concert with the stag-hound's yells. 
R-Ound go the flasks of ruddy wine, 
From Bordeaux, Orleans, or the Rhine 
Their tasks the busy sewers ply 
And all is mirth and revelry. 

VII. 

The Goblin Page, omitting still 

No opportunity of ill, 

Strove now, while blood ran hot and high. 

To rouse debate and Jealousy ; 

Till Conrad, Lord of Wolfenstein, 

By nature fierce, and warm with wine. 

And now in humor highly cross'd. 

About some steeds his band had lost. 

High words to words succeeding still. 

Smote, with his gauntlet, stout Hunthill ; ■•^ 



* Flights of wild swans are often seen on 
St. Mary's Lake, which is at the head of the 
Varrow. 



A hot and hardy Rutherford, 

Whom men called Dickon Draw-the- 

Sword. 
He took it on the page's saye, 
Hunthill had driven these steeds away. 
Then Howard, Home, and Douglas rose, 
The kindling discord to compose ; 
Stern Rutherford right little said, 

But bit his glove,''^ and shook his head 

A fortnight thence, in Inglewood, 
Stout Conrad, cold, anddrench'd in blood 
His bosom gored with many a wound, 
Was by a woodman's lyme-dog found ; 
Unknown the manner of his death, 
Gone was his brand, both sword and sheath; 
But ever from that time, 'twas said, 
That Dickon wore a Cologne blade. 



The dwarf, who fear'd his master's eye 

Might his foul treachery espie. 

Now sought the castle louttery, 

Where many a yeoman, bold and free, 

Revell'd as merrily and well 

As those that sat in lordly seile. 

Wat Tinlinn, there, did frankly raise 

The pledge to Arthur Fire-the-Braes ; f 

And he, as by his breeding bound. 

To Howard's merry-men sent it round. 

To quit them, on the English side, 

Red Roland Forster loudly cried, 

" A deep carouse to yon fair bride ! '' — 

At every pledge, from vat and pail, 

Foam'd forth in floods the nut-brown ale; 

While shout the riders every one ; 

Such day of mirth ne'er cheer' d their clan, 

Since old Buccleuch the name did gain. 

When in the cleuch the buck was ta'en. 



The wily page, with vengeful thought, 

Remember'd him of Tinlinn's yew. ' 

And swore, it should be dearly bought 

That ever he the arrow drew. 
First, he the yeoman did molest, 
With bitter gibe and taunting jest ; 
Told, how he fled at Solway strife. 
And how Hob Armstrong cheer'd his wife ; 
Then, shunning still his powerful arm, 
At unawares he wrought him harm ; 



t The person bearing this redoubtable no-nt 
de gjierre was an Elliott, and resided at Thor- 
leshope, in Liddesdale. He occurs in the list 
of Border riders, in 1597. 







THE LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



37 



From trencher stole his choicest cheer, 
Dash'd from his Hps his can of beer ; 
Then, to his knee sly creeping on. 
With bodkin pierced him to the bone : 
The venom'd wound, and festering joint, 
Long after rued that bodkin's point. 
The startled yeoman su-ore and spurn 'd, 
And board and flagons overturn'd. 
Riot and clamor wild began ; 
Back to the hall the Urchin ran ; 
Took in a darkling nook his post. 
And grinn'd, and mutter'd, "Lost! lost! 
lost!" 

X. 

By this, the Dame, lest farther fray 
Should mar the concord of '.he day, 
Had bid the Minstrels tune their lay. 
And first stept forth old Albert Graeme, 
The Minstrel of that ancient name : ^^ 
Was none who struck the harp so well, 
Within the Land Debateable. 
Well friended, too, his hardy kin, 
Whoever lost, were sure to win ; [broth. 
They sought the beeves that made their 
In Scotland and in England both. 
In homely guise, as nature bade, 
His simple song the Borderer said. 

XI. 

ALBERT GR.«ME, 

It was an English ladye bright, 

(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,*) 
And she would marry a Scottish knight, 

For Love will still be lord of all 
Blithely they saw the rising sun, 

When he slione fair on Carlisle wall ; 
But they were sad ere day was done, 

Though Love was still the lord of all. 
Her sire gave brooch and jewel fine, 

Where ths sun shines fair on Carlisle 
wall ; 
Her brother gave but a flask of wine, 

For ire that Love was lord of all. 
For she had lands, both meadow and lea, 

Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle 
wall, 
\.nd he swore her death, ere he would see 

A Scottish knight the lord of all 1 

XII. 

That wine she had not tasted well, 
(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,) 

When dead, in her true love's arms, she fell. 
For Love was still the lord of all ! 



•This burden is from an old Scottish song. 



He pierced her brother to the heart, 

Where the sun shines fail on Carlisle 
wall : — 
So perish all would true love part. 

That Love may still be lord of all ! 
And then he took the cross divine, 

(Where the sun shines fair on Carlisk 
wall,) 
And died for her sake in Palestine, 

So Love was still the lord of all. 
Now all ye lovers, that faithful prove, 

(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall, 
Pray for their souls who died for love. 

For Love shall still be lord of all ! 



As ended Albert's simple lay. 

Arose a bard of loftier pon ; 
For sonnet, rhyme, and roundelay, 

Renown'd in haughty Henry's court: 
There rung thy harp, unrivall'd long, 
Fitztraver of the silver song ! • 

The gentle Surj-ey loved his lyre — 

Who has not heard of Surrey's fame ? ■*C 

His was the hero's soul of fire. 

And his the bard's immortal name, 
And his was love, exalted high 
By all the glow of chivalrj*. 



They sought, together, climes afar, 

And. oft, within some olive grove, 
When even came with twinkling star, 

They sung of Surrey's absent love. 
His step the Italian peasant stay'd, 

And deem'd, that spirits from on high. 
Round where some hermit saint was laio, 

Were brfiathing heavenly melody ; 
So sweet did harp and voice combine, 
To praise the name of Geraldine. 



Fitztraver ! what tongue may say 

The pangs thy faithful bosom knew, 
When Surrey, of the deathless lay, 

Ungrateful Tudor's sentence slew? 
Regardless of the tyrant's frown. 
His harp call'd wrath and vengeance down 
He left, for Naworth's iron towers, 
Windsor's green glades, and courtly bow 

eis. 
And faithful to his patron's name. 
With Howard still Fitztraver came ; 
Lord William's foremost favorite he. 
And chief of all his minstrelsy. 







38 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 




FITZTRAVER. 

'Twas All-souls' eve, and Surrey's heart 
beat high ; 
He heard the midnight bell with anxious 
start, 
Which told the mystic hour, approaching 
nigh, 
When wise Cornelius promised, by his art, 
Co show to him the ladye of his heart, 
Albeit betwixt them roar'd the ocean 
grim ; 
Ye'c so the sage had hight to play his part, 
That he should see her form in life and 
limb, 
And mark, if still she loved, and still she 
thought of him. 

XVII. 

Dark was the vaulted room of gramarye, 
To which the wizard led the gallant 
Knight, 
*6ave that before a mirror, huge and high, 

A hallow'd taper shed sl glimmering light 
On mystic implements of magic might ; 
On cross, and character, and talisman, 
And almagest, and altar, nothing bright : 
For fitful was tjie lustre, pale and wan. 
As watchliglit by the bed of some departing 
man 

XVIII. 

But soon, within that mirror huge and high, 

Was seen a self-emitted light to gleam ; 
And forms upon its breast the Earl 'gan spy. 

Cloudy and indistinct, as feverish dream, 
Till, slow arranging, and defined, they seem 

To form a lordly and a lofty room. 
Part lighted by a lamp with silver beam. 

Placed by a couch of Agra's silken Irom, 
And part by moonshine pale, and par\. was 
hid m gloom. 

XIX. 

Fair all the pageant- — but how passing fair 
The slender form, which lay on couch of 
Ind! 
O'er her white bosom stray'd her hazel hair, 
Pale her dear cheek, as if for love she 
pined ; 
All in her night-robe loose she lay re- 
clined, 
And, pensive, read from tablet eburnine. 
Some strain that seem'd her inmost soul to 
find;— 
That favor'd strain was Surrey's raptured 
line, [aldine ! 

That fair and lovely form, the Lady Ger- 



Slow roll'd the clouds upon the lovely forn. 

And swept the goodly vision all away — 
So royal envy roll'd the murky storm 

O'er my bnloved Master's glorious day. 
Thou jealoiis, ruthless tyrant ! Heaven 
repay 
On thee, and on thy children's latest line. 
The wild caprice of thy despotic sway. 
The gory bridal bed, the plunder'd 
shrine. 
The murder'd Surrey's blood, the tears of 
Geraldine 



Both Scots and Southern chiefs prolong 
Applauses of Fitztraver's song ; 
These hated Henry's name as death, 
And those still held the ancient faith — 
Then, from his seat, with lofty air. 
Rose Harold, bard of brave St. Clair ; 
St. Clair, who, feasting high at Home, 
Had with that lord to battle come. 
Harold was born where restless seas 
Howl round the storm-swept Orcades ; 
Where erst St. Clairs held princely sway 
O'er isle and islet, strait and bay ; — 
Still nods their palace to its fall. 
Thy pride and sorrow, fair Kirkwall !— 
Thence oft he mark'd fierce Pentland rave, 
As if grim Odin rode her wave ; 
And watch'd, the whilst, with visage pale, 
And throbbing heart, the struggling sail; 
For all of wonderful and wild 
Had rapture for the lonely child. 



And much of wild and wonderful 
In these rude isles might fancy cull ; 
For t'dther came, in times afar. 
Stern Lochlin's sons of roving war. 
The Norsemen, train'd to spoil and blood, 
Skill'd to prepare the raven's food ; 
Kings of the main tjieir leaders brave, 
Their barks the dragons of the wave. 
And there, in many a stormy vale, 
The Scald had told Iiis wondrous tale ; 
And many a Runic column high 
Had witness'd grim idolatry. 
And thus had Harold, in his youth, 
Learn'd many a Saga's rhyme uncouth, — 
Of that Sea-Snake* tremendous curl'd. 
Whose monstrous circle girds the world , 



* For the Sea-Snake, see the " Edda," or 
Mallet's ■' Northern Antiquities." p. 445. 




L\ 



THE LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



39 



Of those dread Maids * whose hideous yell 
Maddens the battle's bloody swell ; 
Of Chiefs, who, guided through the gloom 
By the pale death-lights of the tomb, 
Ransack'd the graves of warriors old, 
Their falchions wrench'd from corpses' 

hold, 
Waked the deaf tomb with war's alarms, 
And bade the dead arise to arms ! 
With war and wonder all on flame, 
To Roshn's bowers young Harold came, 
Where, by sweet glen and greenwood tree-. 
He learn'd a milder minstrelsy ; 
Yet something of the Northern spell 
Mix'd with the softer numbers well. 



HAROLD. 

O listen, listen, ladies gay ! 

No hauglity feat of arms I tell ; 
Soft is the note, and sad the lay^ 

That mourns the lovely Rosabelle : 

— " Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew ! 

And, gentle ladye, deign to stay, 
Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch, 

Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day. 

* The blackening wave is edged with white : 
To inch f and rock the sea-mews fly ; 

The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite, 
Whose streams forebode that wreck is 
nigh. 

"Last night the gifted Seer did view 
A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay ; 

Then stay thee. Fair, in Ravensheuch : 
Why cross the gloomy firth to-day ? " — 

" 'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir 
To-night at Roslin leads the ball, 

But that my ladye-mother there 
Sits lonely in her castle-hall. 

"Tis not because the ring they ride, 
And Lindesay at the ring rides well. 

But that my sire the wine will chide, 
If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle." — 

O'er Roslin all that dreary night 

A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam ; 

'Twas broader than the watcli-fire's light. 
And redder than the bright moon-beam. 

It glared on Roslin's castled rock, 
It ruddied all the copse-wood glen, 



• Tlie Valkyrior or Scandinavian Fates, or 
Fatal Sisters. 

t Inch, an island. 



'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak. 
And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden. 

Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud, 
Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie. 

Each Baron, for a sable shroud, 
Sheathed in his iron panoply. 

Seem'd all on fire, within, around, 

Deep sacristy and altar's pale. 
Shone every pillar foliage-bound. 

And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail. 

Blazed battlement and pinnet high, 

Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair — 

So still they blaze, when fate is nigh 
The lordly line of high St. Clair. 

There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold 
Lie buried within that proud chapelle ; 

Each one the holy vault doth hold — 
But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle 1 

And each St. Clair was buried there. 

With candle, with book, and with knell ; 

Bi.t the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds 
sung. 
The dirge of lovely Rosabelle. 



So sweet was Harold's piteous lay, 

Scarce mark'd the guests the darken'd 
hall. 
Though, long before the sinking day, 

A wondrous shade involved them all : 
It was not eddying mist or fog, 
Drain'd by the sun from fen or bog ; 

Of no eclipse had sages told ; 
And yet, as it came on apace. 
Each one could scarce his neighbor's face, 

Could scarce his own stretcli'd hand be- 
hold. 
A secret horror check'd the feast ; 
.And chill'd the soul of every guest ; 
Even the high Dame stood half aghast. 
She knew some evil on the blast, 
The elfish page fell to the ground. 
And, shuddering, niutter'd, " Found ! foimd! 
found ! " 

XXV. 

Then sudden, through the darken'd air, 

A flash of lightning came ; 
So broad, so bright, so red the glare. 

The castle seem'd on flame. 
Glanced every rafter of the hall. 
Glanced every shield upon the wall ; 
Each trophied beam, each sculptured stone. 
Were instant s^en, and instant gone : 






^ 



40 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Full through the guests' bedazzled band 
Resistless flash'd the levin-brand, 
And fill'd the hall with smouldering smoke. 
As on the eliish paga it broke. 

It broke, with thunder long and loud, 
Dismay'd the brave, appall'd the proud, — 

From sea to sea the larum rung ; 
On Berwick wall, and at Carlisle withal. 
To arms the startled warders sprung : 
When ended was the dreadful roar. 
The elfish dwarf was seen no more. 



Some heard a voice in Branksome Hall, 
Some saw a sight, not seen by all ; 
That dreadful voice was heard by some, 
Cry, with loud summons, " Gylbin, 
COME ! " 

And on the spot where burst the brand, 
Just where the page had flung him 
down, 

Some saw an arm, and some a hand, 
And some the waving of a gown. 
The guests in silence pray'd and shook, 
And terror dimm'd each lofty look. 
But none of all the astonish'd train 
Was so dismay'd as Deloraine ; 
His blood did freeze, his bram did burn, 
'Twas fear'd his mind would ne'er return ; 

For he was speechless, ghastly, wan, 

Like hmi of whom the story ran, 

Who spoke the spectre-hound in Man. 
At length, by fits, he darkly told. 
With broken hint, and shuddering cold — 

That he had seen, nght certamly, 
A shape zvith amice zm-app^d afoic}id. 
With a wrought Spanish baldric bound, 

Like pilgrim from beyond the sea . 
And knew — but how it matter'd not — 
It was the wizard, Michael Scott. 



The anxious crowd, with horror pale. 
All trembling heard the wondrous tale ; 
No sound was made, no word was spoke, 
Till noble Angus silence broke ; 

And he a solemn sacred plight 
Did to St. Bride of Douglas make, 
That he a pilgrimage would take 
To Melrose Abbey, for the sake 
Of Michael's restless sprite. 
Then each, to ease his troubled breast. 
To some bless'd saint his prayers address'd : 
Some to St. Modan made their vows, 
Some to St. Mary of the Lowes. 



Some to the Holy Rood of Lisle, 

Some to our Ladye of the Isle ; 

Each did his patron witness make. 

That he such pilgrimage would take, 

And monks should sing, and bells should 

toll, 
All for the weal of Michael's soul. 
While vows were ta'en, and prayers v/ere 

pray'd, 
'Tis said the noble dame, dismay'd. 
Renounced, for aye, dark magic's aid. 

XXVIII. 

Nought of the bridal will I tell, 
Which after in short space befell ; 
Nor how brave sons and daughters fair 
Bless'd Teviot's Flower, and Cianstoun's 

heir : 
After such dreadful scene, 'twere vain 
To wake the note of mirth again. 
More meet it were to mark the day 

Of penitence and prayer divine- 
When pilgrim chiefs, in sad array, 

Sought Melrose' holy shrine. 

XXIX. 

With naked foot, and sackcloth vest. 
And arms enfolded on his breast, 

Did every pilgrim go ; 
The standers-by might hear uneath,* 
Footstep, or voice, or high-drawn breath, 

Through all the lengthen'd row . 
No lordly look, nor martial stride. 
Gone was their giory, sunk their pride. 

Forgotten their renown ; 
Silent and slow, like ghosts they glide 
To the high altar's hallow'd side, 

And there they knelt them down ; 
Above the suppliant chieftains wave 
The banners of departed brave ; 
Beneath the letter'd stones were laid 
The ashes of their fathers dead ; 
From many a garnish'd niche around, 
Stern saints and tortured martyis frown'd. 

XXX. 

And slow up the dim aisle afar, 
With sable cowl and scapular. 
And snow-white stoles, in o.'der due. 
The holy Fathers, two and two, 

In long procession came , 
Taper, an.d host, and book they bare, 
And holy banner, flourish'd fair 

With the Redeemer's name. 
Above the prostrate pilgrim band 
The mitred Abbot stretch'd his hand, 



* Scarcely hear. 







THE LA Y OF THE LAST M/NSTEEL. 



41 



And bless'd them as they kneel'd ; 

With holy cross he sign'd them all, 

And pray'd they might be sage in hall, 
And fortunate in field. 

Then mass was sung, and prayers were 
said, 

And solemn requiem for the dead ; 

And bells toll'd out their mighty peal, 

For the departed spirit's weal ; 

And ever in the office close 

The hymn of intercession rose ; 

And far the echoing aisles prolong 

The awful burthen of the song, — 
Dies ir^, dies illa, 
solvet s^clum in favilla ; 

While the pealing organ rung. 
Were it meet with sacred strain 
To close my lay, so Hght and vain. 

Thus the holy Fathers sung : — 



HYMN FOR THE DEAD. 

That day of wrath, that dreadful day, 
When heaven and earth shall pass away. 
What power shall be the smner's stay ? 
How shall he meet that dreadful day 1 
When, shnvelhng like a parched scroll. 
The flaming heavens together roll ; 
When louder yet, and yet more dread, 
Swells the high trump that wakes the dead. 
Oh ! on that day, that wrathful day, 
When man to judgment wakes from clay, 



Be Thou the trembling sinner's stay. 
Though heaven and earth shall pass away. 



Hush'd is the harp — the Minstrel gone. 
And did he wander forth alone? 
Alone, in indigence and age. 
To linger out his pilgrimage ? 
No ; close beneath proud Newark's tower, 
Arose the Minstrel's lowly bower .; 
A simple hut ; but there was seen 
The little garden hedged with green. 
The cheerful hearth, and lattice clean. 
There shelter'd wanderers, by the blaze, 
Oft heard the tale of other days ; 
For much he loved to ope his door. 
And give the aid he begg'd before. 
So pass'd the winter's day ; but still. 
When Slimmer smiled on sweet Bowhill, 
And July's eve, with balmy breath, 
Waved the blue-bells on Newark heath ; . 
When throstles sung in Harehead-shaw, 
And corn was green on Carterhaugh, 
And flourish'd, broad, Blackandro's oak, 
The aged Harper's soul awoke ! 
Then would he smg achievements high, 
And circumstance of chivalry. 
Till the rapt traveller would stay, 
Forgetful of the closing day ; 
And noble youths, the strain to hear. 
Forsook the hunting of the deer ; 
And Yarrow, as he roll'd along. 
Bore burden to the ^linstrel's song 






_^ 



MARMION: ' 

A TALE OF FLODDEN FIELD. 

IN SIX CANTOS. 



Alas ! that Scottish maid should sing 
The combat where her lover fell ! 

That Scottish Bard should wake the string, 
The triumph of our foes to tell ! 

Leyden. 



TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE 



HENRY LORD MONTAGU, ETC., ETC., ETC., 



THIS ROMANCE IS INSCRIBED BY 



THE AUTHOR. 



ADVERTISEMENT TO THE FIRST EDITION. 

The present story turns upon the private adventures of a fictitious character ; but is 
called a Tale of Flodden Fields because the hero'' s fate is connected with that memorable 
defeat, and the causes which led to tt. The design of the Author tvas, if possible, io^ 
apprise his readers, at the outset, of the date of his Story, and to prepare them for tlic 
manners of the Age in which it is laid. Any Historical Narrative, far more an 
attempt at Epic compositio7i, exceeded his plan of a Romantic Tale ; yet he may be per- 
mitted to hope, from the popularity of The Lay of the Last Minstrel, that an 
attempt to paint the manners of the feudal times, upon a broader scale, and in the 
course of a more interesting story, will not be unacceptable to the Pitblic. 

The Poem opens about the coinmencement of August, and conchides with the defeat 
of Flodden, cjth September, 15 13. 

ASHESTIEL, 1808. 
(42) 



MARMION. 



43 



INTRODUCTION TO EDITION 1830. 

What I have to say respecting this Poem may be briefly told. In the Introduction to the 
•' Lay of the Last Minstrel," I have mentioned the circumstances, so far as my literary life is 
concerned, which induced me to resign the active pursuit of an honorable profession, for the 
more precarious resources of literature. My appointment to the Sheriffdom of Selkirk called 
lor a change of residence. I left, therefore, the pleasant cottage I had upon the side of the Esk, 
lor the ' ' pleasanter banks of the Tweed," in order to comply with the law, which requires that 
tl-,e Sheriffshall be resident, at least during a certain number of months, withui his jurisdiction. 
We found a delightful retirement, by my becoming the tenant of my intinjate friend and cousui- 
genn.m, Colonel Russell, in his mansion of Ashestiel, which was unoccupied, during his absence 
on military service in India. The house was adequate to our accommodation, and the exercise 
of a limited hospitality. 'I'he situation is uncommonly beautiful, by the side of a fine river, 
whose streams are there very favorable for angling, surrounded by the remains of natural woods, 
and by li:lls abounding in game. In point of society, according to the heartfelt phrase of Scrip- 
ture, we dwelt " amongst our own people ; " and as the distance from the metropolis was only 
thirty miles, we were not out of reach of our Edinburgh friends, in which city we spent the 
terms of the summer and winter Sessions of the Court, that is, five or six months in the year. 

An important circumstance had, about the same time, taken place in my life. Hopes had 
been held out to me from an influential quarter, of a nature to relieve me from the anxiety which 
I must have otherwise felt, as one upon the precarious tenure of whose own life rested the prin- 
cipal prospects of his family, and especially as one who had necessarily some dependence upon 
the favor of the public, which is proverbially capricious ; though it is but justice to add. that, in 
my own case, I have not found it so. Mr. Pitt had expressed a wish to my personal friend, the 
Right Honorable William Dundas. now Lord Clerk Register of Scotland, that some fitting 
opportunity should be taken lo be of service to me , and as my views and wishes pointed to a 
future rather than an immediate provision, an oiportunity of accomplishing this was soon found. 
One o. the Principal Clerks of Session, as they are called (official persons who occupy an im 
portant and responsible situation, and enjoy a considerable incon-.e), who had served upwards of 
ihirty years, felt himself, from age, and the infirmiiy of deafness with which it was accompanied, 
desirous of retirin:^ fiom his official situation. As the law then stood, such official persons were 
entitled to baigam with their successors, either for a sum of money, which was usually a con- 
siderable one, or for an interest in the emoluments of the office during their life. My prede- 
cessor, whose services had been unusually meritorious, stipulated for the emoluments of his 
office during his life, while I should enjoy the survivorship, on the condition that I discharged 
the duties of the office in the mean time. Mr. Pitt, however, having died in the interval, his 
administration was dissolved, and was succeeded by that known by the name of the Fox and 
Grenville Ministry. My affair was so far completed, that my commission lay in the office sub- 
scribed bv his majesty ; but, from hurrv or mistake, the interest of my predecessor was not 
expressed in it, as had been usual in such cases. Although, therefore, it only required payment 
of the fees, 1 could not in honor take out the commission in the present state, since in the event 
of mv dying before him, the gentleman whom I succeeded must have lost the vested interest 
which he had stipulated to retain. I had ihe honor of an interview with Earl Spencer on the 
subject, and he, in the most handsome manner, gave directions that the commission should issue 
as originallv intended ; adding, that the matter having received the royal assent, he regarded 
only as a claim of justice what he would have willingly done as an act of favor, I never saw 
Mr Fox on this, or on any other occasion, and never made any application to him, conceiving 
th.it in doing so I might have been supposed to express political opinions contrary to those 
which I had always professed. In his private capacity, there is no man to whom I would have 
been more proud to owe an obligation, had I been so distinguished. 

By this arrangement I obtained the survivorship of an office, the emoluments of which 
were'fullv adequate to my wishes ; and as the law respecting the mode of providing for super- 
annuated officers was, about five or six years after, altered from that which admitted the 
arrangement of assistant and successor, my colleague very handsomely took the opportunity 
of the alteration, to accept of the retiring annuity provided in such cases, and admitted me to 
the full benefit of the office. 

But although the certaintv of succeeding to a considerable income, at the time I obtained it, 
seemed to assure me of a quiet harbot in mv old age, I did not escape my share of inconven- 
ience from the contrary tides and currents by which we are so often encountered in our journey 
through life. Indeed the publication of my next poetical attempt was prematurely accelerated, 
from one of those unpleasant accidents which can neither be foreseen nor avoided. 




Q^ 






44 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



I had formed the prudent resolution to endeavor to bestow a little more labor than I had ye' 
done on my productions, and to be in no hurry again to announce myself as a candidate for lit- 
erary fame. Accordingly, particular passages of a poem, which was finally called " Marmion," 
were labored with a good deal of care by one by whom much care was seldom bestowed. 
Whether the work was worth the labor or not> I am no competent judge ; but I maybe permitted 
to say, that the period of its composition was a very happy one in my life ; so much so, that I 
remember with pleasure, at this moment, some of the spots in which particular passages wert 
composed. It is probably owing to this, that the Introductions to the several Cantos assumed 
the form of familiar epistles to my intimate friends, in which I alluded, perhaps more than was 
necessary or graceful, to my domestic occupations and amusements — a loquacity which maybe 
excused by those who remember that I was still young, light-headed, and happy, and that " out 
of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh." 

The misfortunes of a near relation and friend, which happened at this time, led me to alter 
my prudent determination, which had been, to use great precaution in sending this poem into the 
world ; and made it convenient at least, if not absolutely necessary, to hasten its publication. 
The publishers of " The Lay of the Last Minstrel," emboldened by the success of that poem, 
willingly offered a thousand pounds for " Marmion." The transaction, being no secret, afforded 
Lord Byron, who was then at general war with all who blacked paper, an apology for including 
me in bis satire, entitled " English Bards and Scotch Reviewers." I never could conceive how 
an arrangement between an author and his publishers, if satisfactory to the persons concerned, 
could afford matter of censure to any third party. I had taken no unusual or ungenerous means 
of enhancing the value of my merchandise — I had never higgled a moment about the bargain, 
but accepted at once what I considered the handsome offer of my^jublishers. These gentlemen, 
at least, were not of opinion that they had been taken advantage of in the transaction, which, 
indeed, was one of their own framing ; on the contrary, the sale of the Poem was so far beyond 
their expectation, as to induce them to supply the Author's cellars with what is always an accept- 
able present to a young Scottish housekeeper, namely, a hogshead of excellent claret. 

The Poem was finished in too much haste, to allow me an opportunity of softening down, if 
not removing, some of its most prominent defects. The nattire of Marmion's guilt, although 
similar instances were found, and might be quoted, as existing in feudal times, was nevertheless 
not sufficiently peculiar to be indicative of the character of the period, forgery being the crime 
of a commercial, rather than of a proud and warlike age. This gross defect ought to have been 
remedied or palliated. Yet I suffered the tree to lie as it had fallen. I remember my friend. 
Dr. Leyden, then in the East, wrote me a furious remonstrance on the subject. I have, never- 
theless, always been of opinion, that corrections, however in themselves judicious, have a bad 
effect — after publication. An author is never so decidedly condemned as on his own confession, 
and may long find apologists and partisans, until he gives up his own cause. I was not, there- 
fore, inclined to afford matter for censure out of my own admissions; and, by good fortune, the 
novelty of the subject, and, if I may so say, some force and vivacity of description, were allowed 
to atone for many imperfections. Thus the second experiment on the public patience, generally 
the most perilous, — for the public are then most apt to judge with rigor, what in the first in. 
stance they had received, perhaps, with imprudent generosity, — was in my case decidedly suc- 
cessful. I had the good fortune to pass this ordeal favorably, and the return of sales before me 
makes the copies amount to thirty-six thousand printed between iSoS and 1S25, besides a con- 
siderable sale since that period. I shall here pause upon the subject of " Marmion," and, in a 
few prefatory words to " The Lady of the Lake," the last poem of mine which obtained err'.: ent 
success, I will continue the task which I have imposed on myself respecting the origin r'l mv 
productions. 



Abbotsfdrd, April, 1830. 



^ 





MARMION. 



INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FIRSl. 



TO 

WILLIAM STEWART ROSE, ESQ. 
Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest. 

November's sky is chill and drear, 
November's leaf is red and sear : 
Late, gazing down the steepy linn, 
That hems our little garden in. 
Low in its dark and narrow glen, 
You scarce the rivulet might ken, 
So thick the tangled greenwood grew, 
So feeble trill' d the streamlet through : 
Now murmuring hoarse, and fi;equent seen 
Through bush and brier, no longer green. 
An angry brook, it sweeps the glade. 
Brawls over rock and wild cascade, 
And, foaming brown with doubled speed. 
Hurries its waters to the Tweed. 

No longer Autumn's glowing red 
Upon our Forest hills is shed ; 
No more, beneath the evening beam, 
Fair Tweed reflects their purple gleam ; 
Away hath pass'd the heather-bell 
That bloom'd so rich on Needpath-fell ; 
Sallow his brow, and russet bare 
Are now the sister-heights of Yair. 
The sheep, before the ])inching heaven. 
To shelter'd dale and down are driven. 
Where yet some faded herbage pines. 
And yet a watery sunbeam shines : 
In meek despondency they eye 
The wither'd sward and wintry sky, 
And far beneath their summer hill, 
Stray sadly by Glenkinnon's rill : 
The shepherd shifts his mantle's fold, 
And wraps him closer from the cold ; 
His dogs no merry circles wheel. 
But, shivering, follow at his heel ; 
A cowering glance they often cast, 
A.S deeper moans the gathering blast. 

My imps, though hardy, bold, and wild. 
As best befits the mountain child. 
Feel the sad influence of tiie hour, 
And wail the daisy's vanish'd flower ; 
Their summer gambols tell, and mourn. 
And anxious ask, — Will spring return, 
And birds and lambs agaia be gay, 
And blossoms clothe the hawthorn spray ? 



Yes, prattlers, yes. The daisy's flower 
Again shall paint your summer bower ; 
Again the hawthorn shall supply 
The garlands you delight to tie ; 
The lambs upon tlie lea shall bound, 
The wild birds carol to the round, 
And while you froHc light as they, 
Too short shall seem tlie summer day. 

To mute and to material things 
New life revolving summer brings ; 
The genial call dead Nature hears, 
And in her glory reappears. 
But oh! my country's wintry state 
What second spring shall renovate ? 
What powerful call shall bid arise 
The buried warlike and the wise ; 
The mind that thought for Britain's weal, 
The hand that grasp'd the victor steel ? 
The vernal sun new life bestows 
Even on the meanest flower that blows ; 
But vainly, vainly may he shine, 
Where glory weeps o'er Nelson's shrine ; 
And vainly pierce the solemn gloom, 
That shrouds, O Pitt, thy hallow'd tomb! 

Deep graved in every British heart, 
O never let those names depart 1 
Say to your sons, — Lo, here his grave, 
Who victor died on Gadite wave ; * 
To him, as to the burning levin. 
Short, bright, resistless course was given. 
Where'er his country's foes were found. 
Was heard the fated thunder's sound. 
T'ill burs', the bolt on yonder shore, 
Roll'd, blazed, destroy'd, — and was no 
more. 

Nor mourn ye less his perish'd worth, 
Who bade tb.e conqueror go forth. 
And launch'd that thunderbolt of war 
On Egypt, Hafnia,t Trafalgar; 
Who, born to g-uide such high emprize. 
For Britain's weal was early wise ; 
Alas! to whom the Almighty gave. 
For Britain's sins, an early grave! 



* Nelson. Gadite wave, sea of Cadiz, oi 
Gades. + Copenhagen. 






46 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



His worth, who, in his mightiest Iionr, 
A bauble hold tlie pride of power, 
Spurn'd at the sordid lust of pelf. 
And served his Albion for herself; 
Who, when the frantic crowd amain 
Strain'd at subjection's bursting rein. 
O'er their wild mood full conquest gain'd 
The pride, he would not crush, restrain'd, 
Show'd their fierce zeal a worthier cause. 
And brought the freeman's arm, to aid the 
freeman's laws. 

Had'st thou but lived, though stripp'd of 
power, 
A watchman on the lonely tower, 
Thy thrilling trump had roused the land, 
When fraud or danger were at hand ; 
By thee, as by the beacon-light. 
Our pilots had kept course aright ; 
As some proud column, tliough alone, 
Thy strength had propp'd the tottering 

throne : 
Now is the stately column broke, 
The beacon-light is quench'd in smoke, 
The trumpet's silver sound is still. 
The warder silent on the hill ! 

Oh think, how to his latest day. 
When Death, just hovering, claim'd his 

prey, 
With Palinure's unalter'd mood. 
Firm at his dangerous post he stood; 
Each call for needful rest repell'd. 
With dying hand the rudder held, 
Till, in his fall, with fateful sway. 
The steerage of the realm gave way ! 
Then, while on Britain's thousand plains. 
One unpolluted church remains. 
Whose peaceful bells ne'er sent around 
The bloody tocsin's maddening sound, 
But still, upon the hallow'd day. 
Convoke the swains to praise and pray ; 
While faith and civil peace are dear, 
Grace this cold marble with a tear, — 
He, who preserved them, Pitt, lies here ! 

Nor yet suppress the generous sigh. 
Because his rival slumbers nigh ; 
Nor be thy rcqiiiescat dumb. 
Lest it be said o'er Fox's tomb. 
For xalents mourn, untmiely lost, 
When best employ'd, and wanted most ; 
Mourn genuis high, and lore profound, 
And wit that loved to play, not wound ; 
And all the reasonmg powers divine, 
To penetrate, resolve, combine ; 
And feelings keen, and fancy's glow, — 
They sleep with him who sleeps below : 



And, if thou mourn'st they could not save 
From error him who owns this grave, 
Be every harsher thought suppress'd, 
And sacred be ihe last long rest. 
Here, where the end of earthly things 
Lays heroes, patriots, bards, and kings ; 
Where stiff the hand, and still the tongue, 
Of those who iought, and spoke, and sung 
Here, where tlie fretted aisles prolong 
The distant notes of holy song. 
As if some angel spoke agon, 
'' All peace on earth, good-will to men, '' 
If ever from an English heart, 
O here let prejudice depart. 
And, partial feeling cast aside. 
Record, that Fox a Briton died ! 
When Europe crouch'd to France's yoke, 
And Austria bent, and Prussia broke. 
And the firm Russian's purpose brave, 
Was barter'd by a timorous slave. 
Even then dishonor's peace he spurn'd. 
The sullied olive-branch return'd. 
Stood for his country's glory fast. 
And nail'd her colors to the mast ! 
Heavn, to reward his firmness, gave 
A portion in this honor'd grave. 
And ne'er held marble in its trust 
Of two such v/ondrous men the dust. 



With more than mortal powers endow'd, 
How high they soar'd above the crowd ! 
Theirs was no common party race, 
Jostling by dark intrigue for place ; 
Like fabled Gods, their mighty war 
Shook realms and nations in its jar ; 
Beneath each banner proud to stand, 
Look'd up the noblest of the land. 
Till through the British world were known 
The names of Pitt and Fox alone. 
Spells of such force no wizard grave 
E'er framed in dark Thessalian cavo, 
Thougti his could drain the ocean dry. 
And force the planets from the sky. 
These spells are spent, and, spent with 

these. 
The wine of life is on the lees. 
Genius, and taste, and talent gone, 
Forever tomb'd beneath the stone. 
Where — taming thought to human pride !- 
The mighty chiefs sleep side by side. 
Drop upon Fox's grave the tear, 
'Twill trickle to his rival's bier , 
O'er Pitt's the mournful requiem sound; 
And Fox's shall tlie notes rebound. 
The solemn echo seems to cry, — 
'' Here let their discord with them die. 







MARMION. 



47 



Speak not for those a separate doom, 
Whom Fate made Brothers in the tomb ; 
But search the land of livino; men, 
Where wilt thou find their like agen ? " 

Rest, ardent Spirits ! till the cries 
Of dying Nature bid you rise ; 
Not even your Britain's groans can pierce 
The leaden silence of your hearse ; 
Then, O, how impotent and vain 
This grateful tributary strain ! 
Though not unmark'd from northern clime, 
Ye heard the Border Mmstrel's rhyme: 
His Gothic harp has o'er you rung ; 
The Bard you deign'd to praise, your death- 
less names has sung. 
Stay yet, illusion, stay a while, 
My wilder'd fancy still beguile 1 
From this high theme how can I part. 
Ere half unloaded is my heart ! 
For all the tears e'er sorrow drew, 
And all the raptures fancy knew, 
And all the keener rush of blood. 
That throbs through bard in bard-like 

mood. 
Were here a tribute mean and low. 
Though all their mingled streams could 

flow — 
Woe, wonder, and sensation high, 
In one spring-tide of ecstasy !— 
It will not be — it may not last — 
The vision of enchantment's past: 
Like frostwork in the morning ray. 
The fancied fabric melts away ; 
Each Gothic arch, memorial-stone. 
And long, dim, lofty aisle, are gone ; 
And, lingering last, deception dear, 
The choir's high sounds die on my ear. 
Now slow return the lonely down. 
The silent pastures bleak and brown. 
The farm begirt with copsewood wild. 
The gambols of each frolic child. 
Mixing their shrill cries with the tone 
Of Tweed's dark waters rushing on. 
Prompt on uneciual tasks to run. 
Thus Nature disciplines her son : 
Meeter, she says, for me to stray, 
And waste the solitary day, 
In plucking from yon fen the reed, 
And watcli it floating down the Tweed ; 
Or idly list the shrilling lay, 
W' ith which the milkmaid cheers her way, 
Marking its cadence rise and fail. 
As from the field, beneath her pail, 
She trips it down the uneven dale : 
Meeter for me, by yonder cairn, 
The ancient shepherd's tale to learn ; 



Though oft he stop in rustic fear. 
Lest his old legends tire the ear 
Of one, who, in his simple mind, 
May boast of book-learn'd taste refined. 

But thou, my friend, canst fitly tell, 
(For few have read romance so well), 
How still the legendary lay 
O'er poet's bosom holds its sway ; 
How on the ancient minstrel strain 
Time lays his palsied hand in vain ; 
And how our hearts at doughty deeds. 
By warriors wrought in steely weeds, 
Still throb for fear and pity's sake ; 
As when the champion of the Lake 
Enters Morgana's fated house, 
Or in the Chapel Perilous, 
Despising spells and demons' force. 
Holds converse with the unburied corse ; * 
Or when, Dame Ganore's grace to move, 
(Alas, that lawless was their love !) 
He sought proud Tarquin in his den, 
And freed full sixty knights ; or when, 
A sinful man, and unconfess'd. 
He took the Sangreal's holy quest. 
And, slumbering, saw the vision high. 
He might not view with waking eye.^ 

The mightiest chiefs of British song 
Scorn'd not such legends to prolong : 
They gleam through Spenser's elfin dream. 
And mix in Milton's heavenly theme ; 
And Dryden, in immortal strain, 
Had raised the Table Round again,^ 
But that a ribald King and Court 
Bade him toil on, to make them sport ; 
Demanded for their niggard pay. 
Fit for their souls, a looser lay, 
Licentious satire, song, and play ; 
The world defrauded of the high design, 
Profaned the God-given strength, and marr'd 
the lofty line. 

Warm'dby such names, well may we then 
Though dwindled sons of little men. 
Essay to break a feeble lance 
In the fair fields of old romance ; 
Or seek the znoated castle's cell; 
Where long througii talisman and spelL 
While tyrants ruled, and damsels wept^ 
Thv Genius, Chivalry, hath slept : 
There sound the harpings of the North, 
Till he awake and sally forth. 
On venturous quest to prick again, 
In all his arms, with all his train. 
Shield, lance, and brand, and plume, and 

scarf. 
Fay, giant, dragon, squire, and dwarf. 



J L 







48 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS, 



And wizard with his wand of might, 
And errant maid on palfrey white. 
Around the Genius weave their spells, 
Pure Love, wlio scarce liis passion tells ; 
Mystery, half veil'd and half reveal'd ; 
And Honor, with his spotless shield ; 
Attention, with fix'd eye ; and Fear, 
That loves the tale she shrinks to hear ; 
And gentle Courtesy; and Faith, 
Unchanged by sufferings, time, or death ; 
And Valor, lion-mettled lord, 
Leaning upon his own good sword. 

Well has thv fair achievement shown, 
A worthy meed may thus be won ; 
Ytene's * oaks — beneath whose shade 
Their theme the merry minstrels made, 
Of .Vscapart, and Bevis bold,'* 
And that Red King,t who. while of old, 
Through Boldrewood the chase he led. 
By his loved huntsman's arrow bled — 
Ytene's oaks have heard again 
Renew'd such legendary strain ; 
For thou hast sung, how He of Gaul, 
That Amadis so famed in hall, 
For Oriana, foil'd in fight 
The Necromancer's felon might; 
And well in modern verse hast wove 
Partenopex's mystic love : J 
Hear, then, attentive to my lay, 
A knightly tale of Albion's elder day. 



CANTO FIRST. 



THE CASTLE. 



Day set on Norham"s castled steep,' 
And Tweed's fair river, broad and deep. 

And Cheviot's mountains lone : 
The battled towers, the donjon keep,* 
The loophole grates, where captives weep, 
The flanking walls that round it sweep. 

In yellow lustre shone. 
The warriors on the turrets high. 
Moving athwart the evening sky, 

Seem'd forms of giant height : 
Their armor, as it caught the rays, 
Flash'd back again the western blaze, 

In lines of dazzling light. 
II. 
Saint George's banner, broad and gay, 
Now faded, as the fading ray 



* Ytene, ancient name of the New Forest, 
Hants. t William Rufus. 

t Parietiopex, a poem by W. S. Rose. 




Less bright, and less, was flung ; 
The evening gale had scarce the power 
To wave it on the Donjon Tower, 

So heavily it hung. 
The scouts had parted on their search, 

The Castle gates were barr'd ; 
Above the gloomy portal arch, 
Timing his footsteps to a march, 

The Warder kept his guard ; 
Low humming, as he paced along, 
Some ancient Border gathering song. 



A distant trampling sound he hears ; 
He looks abroad, and soon appears. 
O'er llorncliff-hill a plump of spears,§ 

Beneath a pennon gay ; 
A horseman, darting from the crowd. 
Like lightning from a summer cloud, 
Spurs on his mettled courser proud, 

Before the dark array. 
Beneath the sable palisade, 
That closed the Castle barricade, 

His bugle-horn he blew ; 
The warder hasted from the wall, 
And warn'd the Captain in the hall. 
For well the blast he knew ; 
And joyfully that knight did cali> 
To sewer, squire, and seneschal. 

IV. 

" Now broach ye a pipe of Malvoisie.|| 

Bring pasties of the doe, 
And quickly make the entrance free. 
And bid my heralds ready be. 
And every minstrel sound his glee, 

And all our trumpets blow ; 
And, from the platform, spare ye not 
To fire a noble salvo-shot; 

Lord Marmion waits Ijelow 1 " 
Then to the Castle's lower ward 

Sped forty yeomen tall. 
The iron-studded gates unbarr'd, 
Raised the portcullis' ponderous guard, 
The lofty palisade imsparr'd 

And let the drawbridge fall. 



Along the bridge Lord Marmion rode, 
Proudly his red-roan charger trode. 
His helm hung at the saddlebow ; 
Well by his visage you might know 
He was a stalworth knight, and keen, 
And had in many a battle been ; 
The scar on his brown cheek reveal'd 
A token true of Bosworth field ; 



§ Body of men-at-arms. 



Malmsey. 





" Day set on Norham's castled steep, 
And Tweed's fair rivei-, broad and deep." 



Page 48. 



^Q 



MARMJON. 



49 



His eyebrow dark, and eye of fire, 
Show'd spirit proud, and prompt to ire; 
Yet lines of thouglit upon his cheek 
Did deep design and counsel speak. 
His forehead, by his casque worn bare, 
His tiiick mustache, and curly hair. 
Coal-black, and grizzled here and there. 

But moro through toil than age ; 
His square-turn'd joints, and strength 

limb, 
Show'd him no carpet knight so trim, 
But in close fight a champion grim. 

In camps a leader sage. 



Well was he arm'd from head to heel, 

In mail and plate of Milan steel ; ' 

But his strong helm, of mighty cost, 

Was all with burnish'd gold emboss'd : 

Amid the plumage of the crest, 

A falcon hover'd on her nest, 

With wings outspread, and forward breast ; 

E'en such a falcon, on his shield, 

Soar'd sable in an azure field : 

The golden legend bore aright, 

tlilljo cljccks at mc, ta &catl) is bifll)t.* 

Blue was the charger's broider'd rein ; 

Blue ribbons deck'd his arching mane ; 

The knightly housing's ample fold 

Was velvet blue, and trapp'd with gold. 



Behind him rode two gallant squires. 
Of noble name, and knightly sires ; 
They burn'd the gilded spurs to claim 
For well could each a war-horse tame, 
Could draw the bow, the sword could sway. 
And lightly bear the ring away ; 
Nor less with courteous precepts stored. 
Could dance in hall, and carve at board. 
And frame love-ditties passing rare, 
And sing them to a lady fair. 



Four men-at-arms came at their backs, 

With halbert, bill, and battle-axe ; 

They bore Lord Marmion's lance so strong, 

And led his sumpter-mules along. 

And ambling palfrey, when at need 

Him listed ease his battle-steed. 

The last and trustiest of the four. 

On high his forky pennon bore ; 

Like swallow's tail, in shape and hue, 

Flutter'd the streamer glossy blue. 

Where, blazon'd sable, as before. 

The towering falcon seem'd to soar. 



Last, twenty yeomen, two and two. 
In hosen black, and jerkins blue, 
With falcons broider'd on each breast, 
Attended on their lord's behest. 
Each, chosen for an archer good. 
Knew hunting-craft by lake or wood; 
Each one a six-foot bow could bend. 
And far a cloth-yard shaft could send ; 
Each held a boar-spear tough and strong, 
.^nd at their belts their quivers rung. 
Their dusty palfreys, and array, 
Show'd they had march' d a weary way. 

IX. 

'Tis meet that I should tell you now, 
How fairly arm'd, and order'd how. 

The soldiers of the guard. 
With musket, pike, and morion. 
To welcome noble Marmion, 

Stood in the Castle-yard ; 
Minstrels and trumpeters were there, 
The gunner held his linstock yare. 

For welcome-shot prepared : 
Enter'd the train, and such a clang, 
As then through all his turrets rang, 

Old Norham never heard. 

X. 

The guards their morrice-pikes advanced, 

The trumpets fiourish'd brave, 
The cannon from the ramparts glanced, 

And thundering welcome gave. 
A blithe salute, in martial sort, 

The minstrels well might sound. 
For, as Lord Marmion cross'd the court, 

He scatter'd angels * round. 
" Welcome to Noriiam, Marmion ! 

Stout heart, and open hand ! 
Well dost thou brook thy gallant roan, 

Thou flower of English land ! '' 

XI. 

Two pursuivants, whom tabarts t deck, 
With silver scutcheon round their neck, 

Stood on the steps of stone. 
By which you reach the ddnjon gate. 
And there, with herald pomp and state, 

They hail'd Lord Marmion : 
They hail'd him Lord of Fontenaye,. 
Of Lutterward, and Scrivelbaye, 

Of Tamworth tower and town ; 9 
And he, their courtesy to requite, 
Gave them a chain ot twelve marks' weight, 

All as he lighted down. 



* A gold coin of the period, value about ten 
shillings. 

+ The embroidered overcoat of the heralds 
&c. 






50 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



" Now, largesse, largesse,* Lord Marmion, 

Knight of the crest of gold ! 
A blazon'd shield, in battle won. 

Ne'er guarded heart so bold." 



They marshall'd him to the Castle-hall, 

Where the guests stood all aside, 
And loudly flourish'd the trumpet-call. 

And the heralds loudly cried, 
— " Room, lordings, room for Lord Mar- 
mion, 

With the crest and helm of gold ! 
Full well we know the trophies won 

In the lists of Cottiswold : 
There, vainly Ralph de Wilton strove 

'Gainst Marmion's force to stand ; 
To him he lost his lady-love, 

And to the King his land. 
Ourselves beheld the listed field, 

A sight both sad and fair ; 
We saw Lord Marmion pierce his shield. 

And saw his saddle bare ; 
We saw the victor win the crest 

He wears with worthy pride; 
And on the gibbet-tree, reversed, 

His foeman's scutcheon tied. 
Place, nobles, for the Falcon-Knight! 

Room, room, ye gentles gay. 
For him who conquer'd in the right, 

Marmion of Fontenaye ! " 



Then stepp'd to meet that noble Lord, 

Sir Hugh the Heron bold. 
Baron of Tvvisell, and of Ford. 
And Captain of the Hold.'° ' 
He led Lord Marmion to the deas, 

Raised o'er the pavement high. 
And placed him in the upper place — 

They feasted full and high : 
The whiles a Northern harper rude 
Chanted a rhyme of deadly feud, 

" Ho%v the fierce Thirifalls, and Ridleys 
all, 
SloTit WilUmotidszvkk, 
And Hardriding Dick, 
And Hus^hie of Hawdon, and Will o' 
the Wall, 
Have set on Sir Albany Featherstonhaiigh, 
And taken his life at the Deadtnan's-shaiv." 



■* The cry by which the bounty of knights 
and nobles was thanked. Tlie word is still 
used in the hopgardens of Kent and Sussex, 
as a demand for payment from strangers en- 
tering them. 



Scantly Lord Marmion's ear could brook 

The harper's barbarous lay ; 
Yet much he praised the pains he took, 
And well those pains did pay : 
For lady's suit, and minstrel's strain. 
By knight should ne'er be heard in vain. 

XIV. 

" Now, good Lord Marmion,' Heron says. 

" Of your fair courtesy, 
I pray you bide some little space 

In this poor tower with me. 
Here may you keep your arms from rust. 

May breathe yom- war-horse well ; 
Seldom hath pass'd a week but giust 

Or feat of arms befell : 
The Scots can rein a mettled steed ; 

And love to couch a spear ; — 
Saint George ! a stirring life they lead, 

That have such neighbors near. 
Then stay with us a little space, 

Our northern wars to learn ; 
I pray you, for your lady's grace ! '' 

Lord Marmion's brow grew stern. 



The Captain mark'd his alter'd look. 

And gave a squire the sign ; 
A mighty wassail-bowl he took, 

And crown'd it high in wine. 
" Now pledge me here, Lord Marmion : 

But first I pray thee fair. 
Where hast thou left that page of thine, 
That used to serve thy cup of wine, 

Whose beauty was so rare.' 
When last in Raby towers we met, 

The boy I closely eyed. 
And often mark'd his cheeks were wet. 

With tears he fain would hide : 
His was no rugged horse-boy's hand, 
To biu-nish shield or sharpen brand, 

Or saddle battle-steed : 
But meeter seem'd for lady fair. 
To fan her cheek, or curl her hair. 
Or through embroidery, rich and rare, 

The slender silk to lead ; 
His skin was fair, his ringlets gold. 

His bosom — when he sigh'd, 
The russet doublet's rugged fold 

Could scarce repel its pride ! 
Say, hast thou given that lovely youth 

To serve in lady's bower? 
Or was the gentle page, in sooth, 

A gentle paramour .' " 



Lord Marmion ill could brook such jest; 
He roll'd his kindling eye, 






M ARM ION. 



51 



With pain his rising wrath suppress'd, 

Yet made a calm reply ; 
" That boy thou tliought'st so goodly fair, 
He might not brook the northern air ; 
More of his fate if thou wouldst learn, 
I left him sick in Lindisfarn : 
Enough of him. — But, Heron, say, 
Why does thy lovely lady gay 
Disdain to grace the hall to-day ? 
Or ha? that dame, so fair and sage, 
Gone on some pious pilgrimage ? " — 
He spoke in covert scorn, for fame 
Whisper'd light tales of Heron's dariie. 



Unmark'd, at least unreck'd, the taunt ; 

Careless the Knight replied, 
" No bird, whose feathers gayly flaunt, 

Delights in cage to bide : 
Norham is grim and grated close, 
Hemm'd m by battlement and fosse, 

And many a darksome tower ; 
And better loves my lady bright 
To sit in liberty and light. 

In fair Queen Margaret's bower. 
We hold our greyhound in our hand, 

Our falcon on our glove ; 
But where shall we find leash or band, 

For dame that loves to rove? 
Let the wild falcon soar her swing, 
She'll stoop when she has tired her wing 



" Nay, if with Royal James's bride 

The lovely Lady Heron bide, 

Behold me here a messenger, 

Your tender greetings prompt to bear; 

For, to the Scottish court address'd, 

I journey at our King's bihest. 

And pray you, of your grace, provide 

For me, and mine, a trusty guide. 

I have not ridden in Scotland since 

James back'd the cause of that mock prince 

Warbeck, that Flemish counterfeit, 

Who on the gibbet paid the cheat. 

Then did I march with Surrey's power, 

What time wairazed old Ayton tower." n 



" For such-like need, my lord, I trow, 
Norham can find you guides enow ; 
For here be some have prick'd as far , 
On Scottish ground, as to Dunbar ; 
Have drunk the monks of St. Bothan's ale, 
And driven tlie beeves of Lauderdale ; 
Harried the wives of Greenlaw's goods, 
And given them light to set their hoods.'' ■'- 



" Now, in good sooth," Lord Marmion 

cried, 
" Were I in warlike wise to ride, 
A better guard I would not lack, 
Than your stout forayers at my back ; 
But, as in form of peace I go, 
A friendly messenger, to know. 
Why through all Scotland, near and fav, 
Their King is mustering troops for war, 
The sight of plundering border spears 
Might justify suspicious fears. 
And deadly feud, or thirst of spoil. 
Break out in some unseemly broil : 
A herald were my fitting guide ; 
Or friar, sworn in peace to bide ; 
Or pardoner, or ti-avelling priest, 
Or strolling pilgrim, at the least." 

XXI. 

The Captain mused a little space. 

And pass'd his hand across his face. 

— " Fain would I find the guide you want, 

But ill may spare a pursuivant, 

The only men that safe can ride 

Mine errands on the Scottish side : 

And though a bishop built this fort. 

Few holy brethren here resort ; 

Even our good chaplain, as I ween. 

Since our last siege, we have not seen: 

The mass he might not sing or say, 

Upon one stinted meal a-day ; 

.So, safe he sat in Durham aisle. 

And pray'd for our success the while. 

Our Norman vicar, woe betide. 

Is all too well in case to ride ; 

The priest of Shoreswood '3 — he could rein 

The wildest war-horse in your train ; 

But then, no spearman in the hall 

\A'ill sooner swear, or stab, or brawl. 

Friar John of Tillniouth were the man : 

A blithesome brother at the can, 

A welcome guest in hall and bower. 

He knows each castle, town, and tower, 

In which the wine and ale is good, 

'Twixt Newcastle and Holy-Rood. 

But that good man, as ill befalls. 

Hath seldom left our castle walls. 

Since, on the vigil of St. Bede, 

In evil hour, he cross'd the Tweed, 

To teach Dame Alison her creed. 

Old Bughtrig found him with his wife; 

And John, an enemy to strife. 

Sans frock and hood, fled for his life. 

The jealous churl hath deeply swore, 

Tiiat, if again he venture o'er. 

He shall shrive penitent no more. 




<:— 1- 




M3^ 




SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Little he loves such risks, I know ; 
Yet, in your guard, perchance will go.'' 

XXII. 

Young Selby, at the fair hall-board. 
Carved to his uncle and that lord, 
And reverently took up the word. 
" Kind uncle, woe were we each one. 
If harm should hap to brother John, 
fie is a man of mirthful speecli, 
Can many a game and gambol teach ; 
Full well at tables can he play, 
And sweep at bowls the stake away. 
None can a lustier carol bawl, 
The needfullest among us all, 
When time hangs heavy in the hall, 
And snow comes thick at Christmas tide, 
And we can neither hunt, nor ride 
A foray on the Scottish side. 
The vow'd revenge of Bughtrig rude, 
May end in worse than loss of hood. 
Let Friar John, in safety, still 
In chimney-corner snore his fill, 
Roast hissing crabs, or flagons swill . 
Last night, to Norham there came one. 
Will better gnide Lord Marmion." — 
"Nephew," quoth Heron, "bv my fay, 
Wall hast thou spoke ; say forth thy say." 

XXIII. 

" Here is a holy Palmer come, 

From Salem first, and last from Rome ; 

One, that hath kiss'd th.e blessed tomb, 

And visited each holy shrine 

In Araby and Palestine; 

On hills of Armenie hath been, 

Where Noah's ark may j'et be seen ; 

By that Red Sea, too, hath he trod, 

Which parted at the prophet's rod ; 

In Sinai's wilderness he saw 

The Mount, where Israel heard the law, 

'Mid thunder-dint, and flashing levin, 

And shadows, mists, and darkness, given. 

He shows Saint James's cockle-shell. 

Of fair Montserrat, too, can tell ; 

And of that Grot where Olives nod. 
Where, darling of each heart and eye. 
From all the youth of Sicily, 

Saint Rosalie retired to God.'-* 

XXIV. 

"To stout Saint George of Norwich merry, 
Saint Thomas, too, of Canterbury, 
Cuthbert of Durham and Saint Bede, 
For his sins' pardon hath he pray'd. 
He knows the passes of the North, 
And seeks far shrines beyond the Forth : 



Little he eats, and long will wake. 
And drinks but of the stream or lake. 
This were a guide o'er moor and dale ; 
But, when our John hath quaff' d his ale. 
As little as the wind that blows. 
And warms itself against his nose. 
Kens he, or cares, which way he goes."- — 



"Gramercy ! " quoth Lord Marmion, 
" Full loth were I, that Friar John, 
That venerable man, for me. 
Were placed in fear of jeopardy. 
If this same Palmer will me lead 

From hence to Hoh-Rood, 
Like his good saint, I'll pay his meed, 
Instead of cockle-shell, or bead, 

With angels fair and good. 
I love such holy ramblers ; still 
They know to charm a weary hill, 

With song, romance, or lav : 
Some jovial tale, or glee, or jest. 
Some lying legend, at the least. 

They bring to cheer the way."— 



" Ah ! noble sir," young Selby said. 

And finger on his lip he laid, 

" This man knows much, perchance e'en 

more 
Than he could learn by holy lore. 
Still to himself he's muttering. 
And shrinks as at some unseen thing. 
Last night we listen'd at his cell ; 
Strange sounds we heard, and, sooth to tell, 
He murmur'd on till morn, howe'er 
No living mortal could be near. 
Sometimes I thought I heard it plain. 
As other voices spoke again. 
I cannot tell — 1 like it not — 
Friar John hath told us it is \yrote. 
No conscience clear, and void of wrong, 
Can rest awake, and pray so long. 
Himself still sleeps before his beads 
Have mark'd ten aves, and two creeds." ^^ 



— " Let pass," quoth Marmion ; " by my 

fay. 
This man shall guide me on my way. 
Although the great arch-fiend and he 
Had sworn themselves of company. 
So please you, gentle vouth, to call 
This Palmer to the Castle-hall." 
The summon'd Palmer came in place : ^* 
His sable cowl o'erhung his face ; 





j£ 



MARMIOJ^. 



In his black mantle was he clad, 
With Peter's keys, in cloth of red, 

On his broad shoulders wrought ; 
The scallop shell his cap did deck; 
The crucifix around his neck 

Was from Loretto brought ; 
His sandals were with travel tore, 
Staff, budget, bottle, scrip, he wore ; 
The faded palm-branch in his hand 
Show'd pilgrim from the Holy Land, 

XXVIII. 

When as the Palmer came in hall, 

No lord, nor knight, was there more tall, 

Nor had a statelier step withal. 

Or look'd more high and keen ; 
For no saluting did he wait, 
But strode across the hall of state, 
And fronted Marmion where he sate, 

As he his peer had been. 
But his gaunt frame was worn with toil ; 
His cheek was sunk, alas the while ! 
And when he struggled at a smile, 

His eye look'd haggard wild 
Poor wretch ! the mother that him bare, 
If she had been in presence there. 
In his wan face, and sun-burn'd hair, 

She had not known her child. 
Danger,, long travel, want, or woe. 
Soon change the form that best we know — 
For deadly fear can time outgo, 

And blanch at once the hair : 
Hard toil can roughen form and face, 
And want can quench the eye's bright 

grace. 
Nor does old age a wrinkle trace 

More deeply than despair. 
Happy whom none of these befall. 
But this poor Palmer knew them all. 

XXIX. 

Lord Marmion then his boon did ask ; 
The Palmer took on him the task. 
So he would march with morning tide, 
To Scottish court to be his guide. 
" But I have solemn vows to pay, 
And may not linger by the wa}^. 

To fair St. Andrew's bound. 
Within the ocean-cave to jiray. 
Where good Saint Rule his holy lay, 
From midnight to the dawn of day, 

Simg to the billows' sound ; ''' 
Thence to Saint Fillan's blessed well, 
Whose spring can frenzied dreams dispel. 

And the crazed brain restore : '^ 
Saint Mary grant, that cave or spring 
Could back to peace my bosom bring, 

Or bid it throb no more 1 " 



And now the midnight draught of sleep, 
Where wine and spices richly steep, 
In massive bowl of silver deep. 

The page presents on /-inee. 
Lord Marmion drank a fair good rest, 
The Captain pledged his noble guest, 
The cup went through among the rest. 

Who drain'd it merrily ; 
Alone the Palmer pass'd it by, 
Though Selby press'd him courteously, 
This was a sign the feast was o'er ; 
It hush'd the merry wassail roar, 

The minstrels ceased to souncl. 
Soon in the castle nought was heard, 
But the slow footstep of the guard. 

Pacing his sober round. 



With early dawn Lord Marmion rose : 

And first the chapel doors unclose ; 

Then, after morning rites were done, 

(A hasty mass from Friar John,) 

And knight and squire had broke their fast, 

On rich substantial repast. 

Lord Marmion's bugles blew to horse : 

Then came the stirrup-cup in course : 

Between the Baron and his host. 

No point of courtesy was lost ; 

High thanks were by Lord Marmion paid, 

Solemn excuse the Captain made. 

Till, fifing from the gate, had pass'd 

That noble train, their Lord the last. 

Then loudly rung the trumpet call ; 

Thunder'd the cannon from the wall, 

And shook the Scottish shore ; 
Around the castle eddied slow, 
Volumes of smoke as white as snow, 

And hid its turrets hoar; 
Till they roll'd forth upon the air. 
And met the river breezes there, 
Which gave agsin the prospect fair. 



INTRODUCTION TO CANTO 
SECOND. 



THE REV. JOHN MARRIOTT, A.M. 

Ashesticl, Ettrick Forest. 
The scenes are desert now, and bare, 
Where flourish'd once a forest fair,'? 
When these waste glens with copse were 

lined. 
And peopled with the hart and hind. 




c — a -"^ 





54 



SCOTT'S POETTCAL WORKS. 



Yon Thorn — perchance whose prickly 

spears 
Have fenced him for three hundred years, 
While fell around his green compeers — 
Yon lonely Thorn, would he could tell 
The changes of his parent dell, 
Since he, so gray and stubborn now. 
Waved in each breeze a sapling bough ; 
Would he could tell how deep the shade 
A thousand mingled branches made ; 
How broad the shadows of the oak. 
How clung the rowan * to the rock, 
And through the foliage show'd his head, 
With narrow leaves and berries red ; 
What pines on every moimtain sprung, 
O'er every dell what birches hung, 
In every breeze what aspens shook, 
What alders shaded every brook I 

" Here, in my shade," methinks he'd say, 
" The mighty stag at noon-tide lay ; 
The wolf I've seen, a fiercer game, 
(The neighboring dingle bears his name,^ 
With lurching step around me prowl. 
And stop, against the moon to howl ; 
The mountain-boar, on battle set. 
His tusks upon my stem would whet ; 
While doe, and roe, and red deer good, 
Have bounded by, through gay green- 
wood. 
Then oft, from Newark's riven tower, 
Sallied a Scottish monarch's power: 
A thousand vassals muster'd round, 
With horse, and hawk, and horn, and 

hound ; 
And I might see the youth intent, 
Guard every pass with crossbow bent ; 
And through the brake the rangers stalk, 
And falc'ners hold the ready hawk ; 
And foresters, in green-wood trim, 
Lead in the leash the gazehounds grim, 
Attentive, as the bratchet's t bay 
From the dark covert drove the prey, 
To slip them as he broke away. 
The startled quarry bounds amain. 
As fast the gallant gre3'hounds strain 
Whistles the arrow from the bow, 
Answers the harquebusi, below ; 
While all the rocking h'lis reply, 
To hoof-clang, houn.d, and hunters' cry, 
And bugles ringing lightsomely." 

Of such proud huntmgs, many tales 
Yet linger in our lonely dales, 
Up pathless Ettrick and on Yarrow, 



• Mountain ash. 



t Slowhound. 



Where erst the outlaw drew his arrow.| 
But not more blithe that silvan court. 
Than we have been at humbler sport ; 
Though small our pomp, and mean our 

game. 
Our mirth, dear Marriott, was the same. 
Remember'st thou my greyhounds true? 
O'er holt or hill there never flew, 
From slip or Ic-ash there never sprang. 
More fleet of foot, or sure of /ang. 
Nor dull, between each merry chase, 
Pass'd by the intermitted space ; 
For we had fair resource in store. 
In Classic and in Gothic Icre : 
We mark'd each memorable scene. 
And held poetic talk between ; 
Nor hill, nor brook, we paced along. 
But had its legend or its song. 
All silent now^for now are still 
Thy bowers, untenanted Bowhill ! § 
No longer, from thy mountains dun, 
The yeoman hears the well-known gun, 
And while his honest heart grows warm, 
At thought of his parental farm. 
Round to his mates a brimmer tills. 
And drinks, "The Chieftain of the Hills 1" 
No fairy forms, in Yarrow's bowers, 
Trip o'er the walks, or tend the flowers, 
Fair as the elves whom Janet saw 
By moonlight dance on Carterhaugh ; 
No youthful Baron's left to grace 
The Forest-Sheriff's lonely chase. 
And ape, in manly step and tone, 
The majesty of Oberon : 
And she is gone, whose lovely face 
Is but her least and lowest grace ; 
Though if to Sylphid Queen 'twere given, 
To show our earth the charms of Heaven, 
She could not glide along the air. 
With form more light, or face more fair. 
No more the widow's deafen'd ear 
Grows quick that lady's step tc hear : 
At noon-tide she expects her not. 
Nor busies her to trim the cot ; 
Pensive she turns her humming wheel, 
Or pensive cooks her orphans' meal ; 
\' et blesses, ere she deals their bread, 
The gentle hand by which they're fed. 

From Yair, — which hills so closely bind, 
Scarce can the Tweed his passage find, 
Though much he fret, and chafe, and toil, 
Till all his eddying currents boil, — 



X Murray, the Robin Hood of Ettrick, but 
inferior in good qualities to our archer. 

§ A seat of the Duke of Kuccleuch on the 
Yarrow. 




w 




^ 



MARMIOJV. 



55 



Her long-descended lord is gone, 
And left us by the stream alone. 
And much I miss those sportive boys, 
Companions of my mountain joys, 
Just at the age 'twixt boy and youth, 
When thought is speech, and speech is 

truth. 
Close to mv side, with what delight 
They press'd to hear of Wallace wight, 
When, pointing to his airy mound, 
I call'd his ramparts holy ground I 
Kindled their brows to hear me speak ; 
And I have smiled, to feel my cheek, 
Despite the difference of our years. 
Return again the glow of theirs. 
Ah, happy boys ! such feelings pure, 
They will not, cannot, long endure ! 
Condemn'd to stem the world's rude tide, 
You may not linger by the side ; 
For Fate shall thrust you from the shore. 
And Passion ply the sail and oar. 
Yet cherish the remembrance still. 
Of the lone mountain, and the rill ; 
For trust, dear boys, the time will come. 
When fiercer transport shall be dumb, 
And vou will think right frequently. 
But, well, I hope, without a sigh, 
On the free hours that we have spent 
Together, on the brown hill's bent. 

When, musing on companions gone. 
We doubly feel ourselves alone. 
Something, my friend, we yet may gain ; 
There is a pleasure in this pain : 
It soothes the love of lonely rest, 
Deep in each gentler heart impress'd. 
'Tis silent amid worldly toils. 
And stifled soon by mental broils : 
But in a bosom thus prepared, 
Its still small voice is often heard, 
Whispering a mingled sentiment, 
'Twixt resignation and content. 
Oft in my mind such thoughts awake, 
Bv lone St. Mary's silent lake ; ^° 
Thou know'st it well,— nor fen, nor sedge, 
Pollute the pure lake's crystal edge ; 
Abrupt and sheer, the mountains sink 
At once upon the level brink ; 
And just a trace of silver sand 
Marks where the water meets the land. 
Far in the mirror, bright iind blue, 
Each hill's huge outline you may view , 
Shaggy with heath, but lonely bare. 
Nor tree, nor bu?.h, nor brake, is there. 
Save where, of land, yon slender line_ 
Bears thwart the lake the scatter'd pine. 
Yet even this nakedness has pov/er, 



And aids the feeling of the hour : 

Nor thicket, dell, nor copse you spy, _ 

Where living thing conceal'd might lie 

Nor point, retiring, hides a dell. 

Where swain, or woodman lone, might 

dwell ; 
There's nothing left to fancy's guess, 
You see that all is loneliness : 
And silence aids— though the steep hills 
Send to the lake a thousand rills ; 
In summer tide, so oft they weep, 
The sound but lulls the ear asleep ; 
Your horse's hoof-tread .sounds too rude, 
So stilly is the solitude. 

Nought living meets the eye or ear, 
But well I ween the dead are near ; 
For though, in feudal strife, a foe 
Hath laid Our Lady's chapel low,=» 
Yet still, beneath the hallow'd soil. 
The peasant rests him from his toil, 
And, dying, bids his bones be laid. 
Where erst his simple fathers pray'd. 

If age had tamed the passions' strife, 
And fate had cut my ties to life. 
Here, have I thought, 'twere sweet to 

dwell. 
And rear again the chaplain's cell, 
Like that same peaceful hermitage. 
Where Milton long'd to spend his age. 
'Twere sweet to niark the setting day, 
On Bourhope's lonely top decay ; 
And, as it faint and feeble died 
On the broad lake, and mountain's side, 
To say, " Thus pleasures fade away ; 
Youth, talents, beaut v, thus decay. 
And leave us dark, forlorn, and gray ;" 
Then gaze on Dryhope's ruin'd tower. 
And think on Yarrow's faded Flower : 
And when that mountain-sound I heard, 
Which bids us be for storm prepared, 
The distant rustling of his wings. 
As up his force the Tempest brings, 
'Twere sweet, ere yet his terrors rave, 
To sit upon the Wizard's grave; 
That Wizard Priest's, whose bones are 

thrust 
From company of holy dust ; ^^ 
On which no sunbeam ever shines — 
(So superstition's creed divines)— 
Thence view the lake, with sullen roar, 
Heave her broad billows to the shore ; 
And mark the wild-swans mount the gale, 
Spread wide through mist their snowy sail, 
And ever stoop again, to lave 
Their bosoms on the surging wave: 




56 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 




Then, when against the driving hail 

No longer might my plaid avail, 

Back to my lonely home retire, 

And light my lamp, and trim my fire ; 

There ponder o'er some mystic lay, 

Till the wild tale had all its sway. 

And, in the bittern's distant shriek, 

I heard unearthly voices speak, 

And thought the Wizard Priest was come, 

To claim again his ancient home ! 

And bade my busy fancy range. 

To frame him fitting shape and strange, 

Till from the task my brow I clear'd, 

And smiled '■o think that I had fear'd. 

But chief, 'twere sweet to think such life, 
(Though but escape from fortune's strife,) 
Something most matchless good and wise, 
A great and grateful sacrifice ; 
And deem each hour to musing given, 
A ste^D upon the road to heaven. 

Yet him, whose heart is ill at ease. 
Such peaceful solitudes displease : 
He loves to di-own his bosom's jar 
Amid the elemental war : 
And my black Palmer's choice had been 
Some ruder and more savage scene, 
Like that which frowns round dark Loch- 

skene.-^ 
There eagles scream from isle to shore ; 
Down all the rocks the torrents roar ; 
O'er the black waves incessant driven, 
Dark mists infect tiie summer heaven ; 
Through the rude barriers of the lake, 
Away its hurrying waters break, 
Faster and whiter dash and curl. 
Till down yon dark abyss they hurl. 
Rises the fog-smoke white as snow, 
Thunders the viewless stream below, 
Diving, as if condemned to lave 
Some demon's subterranean cave, 
Who, prison'd by enchanter's spell. 
Shakes the darlc rock with groan and yell. 
And well that Palmer's form and mien 
Had suited with the stormy scene, 
Tiist on the edge, straining his ken 
To view the bottom of the den, 
Where, deep deep down, and far within. 
Toils with the rocks the roaring linn ; 
Then, issuing fortli one foamy wave. 
And wheeling rour.d the Giant's Grave, 
White as the snowy charger's tail. 
Drives down the pass of Moffatdale. 

Marriott, thy harp, on Isis strung. 
To many a Border theme has rung : 



Then list to me, and thou shalt know 
Of this mysterious Man of Woe. 



CANTO SECOND. 



THE CONVENT. 



The breeze which swept away the smoke, 

Round Norham Castle roll'd. 
When all the loud artillery spoke. 
With lightning-flash and thunder-stroke, 

As Marmion left the Hold. 
It curl'd not Tweed alone, that breeze, 
For, far upon Northumbrian seas, 

It freshly blew, and strong, 
Where, from high Whitbv's cloister'd pile, 
Bound to St. Cuthbert's Holy Isle,-'^ 

It bore a bark along. 
Upon the gale she stoop'd her side. 
And bounded o'er the swelling tide, 

As she were dancing home ; 
The merry seamen laugh'd, to see 
Their gallant ship so lustily 

FiuTow the green sea-foam. 
Much joy'd they in their honor'd freight; 
For, on the deck, in chair of state. 
The Abbess of Saint Hilda placed. 
With five fair nuns, the galley graced. 



'Twas sweet to see these holy maids. 
Like birds escaped to green-wood shades. 

Their first fliglit from the cage, 
How timid, and how curious too. 
For all to them was strange and new. 
And all the common sights they view, 

Their wonderment engage. 
One eyed the shrouds and swelling sail, 

With many a benedicite ; 
One at the rippling surge grew pale. 

And would for terror pray ; 
Tiien shriek'd, because the sea-dog, nigh. 
His round black head, and sparkling eye-, 

Rear'd o'er the foaming spray ; 
And one would still adjust her veil, 
Disorder'd by the summer gale, 
Perchance lest some more worldly eye 
Her dedicated charms might spy ; 
Perchance, because such action graced 
Her fair-turn'd arm and slender waist. 
Light was each simple bosom there. 
Save two, who ill might pleasure share, — 
The Abbess and the Novice Clare. 






MARMIO.N: 



in. 

The Abbess was of noble blood, 
But early look the veil and hood, 
Ere upon life she cast a look, 
Or knew the world that she forsook. 
Fair too she was, and kind had been 
As she was fair, but ne'er had seen 
For her a tiraid lover sigh. 
Nor knew the influence of her eye. 
Love, to her ear, was but a name 
Combined with vanity and shame ; 
Her hopes, her fears, her joys, were all 
Bounded within the cloister wall : 
The deadliest sin her mind could reach, 
Was of monastic rule the breach ; 
And her ambition's highest aim 
To emulate Saint Hilda's fame. 
For this she gave her ample dower, 
To raise the convent's eastern tower ; 
For this, with carving rare and quaint, 
She deck'd the chapel of the saint, 
And gave the relic-shrine of cost, 
With ivory and gems emboss'd. 
Tlie poor her Convent's bounty blest. 
The pilgrim in its halls found rest. 

IV. 

Black was her garb, her rigid rule 
Reformed on Benedictine school ; 
Her cheek was pale, her form was spare ; 
Vigils, and penitence austere, 
Had early quench'd the light of youth, 
But gentle was the dame, in sooth ; 
Though, vain of her religious sway, 
She loved to see her maids obey. 
Yet nothing stern was she in cell. 
And the nuns loved their Abbess well. 
Sad was this- voyage to the dame ; 
Summon'd to Lindisfarne, she came. 
There, with Saint Cuthbert's Abbot old, 
And Tynemouth's Prioress, to hold 
A chapter of St. Benedict, 
For inquisition stern and strict, 
On two apostates from the faith. 
And, if need were, to doom to death 



Nought say I here of Sister Clare, 
Save this, that she was young and fair ; 
As yet, a novice unprofess'd. 
Lovely and gentle, but distress'd. 
She was betroth'd to one now dead, 
Or worse, who had dishonor'd fled. 
Her kipsmen bade her give her hand 
To one, who loved her for her land : 
Herself, almost heart-broken now, 
Was bent to take the vestal vow. 



And shroud within Saint Hilda's gloom, 
Her blasted hopes and wither'd bloom. 



She sate upon the galley's prow. 
And seem'd to mark the waves below; 
Nay, seem'd, so fix'd her look and eye, 
To count them as they glided by. 
She saw them not — 'twas seeming all — 
Far other scene her thoughts recall, — 
A sun-scorch'd desert, waste and bare, 
Nor waves, nor breezes, murmur'd there , 
There saw she, where some careless hand 
O'er a dead corpse had heap'd the sand. 
To hide it till the jackals come, 
To tear it from the scanty tomb.— 
See what a woeful look was given. 
As she raised up her eyes to heaven ! 



Lovely, and gentle, and distress'd — 
These charms might tame the fiercest 

breast ; 
Harpers have sung, and poets told, 
That he, in fury uncontroll'd. 
The shaggy monarch of the wood. 
Before a virgin, fair and good. 
Hath pacified his savage mood. 
But passions iji the human frame, 
Oft put the lion's rage to shame : 
And jealousy, by dark intrigue. 
With sordid avarice in league. 
Had practised with their bowl and knife, 
Against the mourner's harmless life. 
This crime was charged 'gainst those who 

lay 
Prison'd in Cuthbert's islet gray. 

VIII. 

And now the vessel skirts the strand 
Of mountainous Northumberland ; 
Towns, towers, and halls, successive rise. 
And catch the nuns' delighted eyes. 
Monk-Wearmouth soon behind them lay; 
And Tynemouth's priory and bay ; 
Thev mark'd, amid her trees, the hall 
Of lofty Seaton Delaval ; 
They saw the Blythe and Wansbeck floods 
Rush to the sea through sounding woods \ 
They pass'd the tower of Widderington, 
Mother of many a valiant son ; 
At Coquet-isle their beads they tell 
To the good Saint who own'd the cell ; 
Then did the Alne attention claim. 
And Warkworth, proud of Percy's name ; 
And next, they cross'd themselves, to hear 
The whitening breakers sound so near, 





j£ 



e—t 




58 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Where, boiling thro' the rocks, they roar, 
On Dunstanboroiigh's cavern'd shore ; 
Thy tower, proud Baniborough, mark'd they 

there, 
King Ida's castle, huge and square, 
From its tall rock look grimly down, 
And on the swelling ocean frown ; 
Then from the coast they bore away, 
And reach'd the Holy Island's bay. 

IX. 

The tide did now its flood-mark gain. 
And girdled in the Saint's domain : 
For, with the flow and ebb, its style 
Varies from continent to isle ; 
Dry-shod, o'er sands, twice every day, 
The pilgrims to the shrine find way , 
Twice every day, the waves efface 
Of staves and sandall'd feet the trace. 
As to the port the galley flew. 
Higher and higher rose to view 
The Castle with its battled walls, 
The ancient monastery's halls, 
A solemn, huge, and dark-red pile, 
Placed on the margin of the isle. 

X. 

In Saxon strength that abbey frown'd. 
With massive arches broad and round, 

That rose alternate, row and row. 

On ponderous columns, short and low, 
Built ere the art was known. 

By pointed aisle, and shafted stalk, 

The arcades of an alley'd walk 
To emulate in stone. 
On the deep walls, the heathen Dane 
Had pour'd his impious rage in vain ; 
And needful was such strength to these, 
Exposed to the tempestuous seas. 
Scourged by the winds' eternal sway. 
Open to rovers fierce as they. 
Which could twelve hundred years with- 
stand 
Winds, waves, and northern pirates' hand. 
Not but that portions of the pile, 
Rebuilded in a later style, 
Shovr'd where the spoiler's hand had been ; 
Not but the wasting sea-breeze keen 
Had worn the pillar's carving quaint. 
And moulder'd in his niche the saint. 
And rounded, with consuming power, 
The pointed angles of each tower ; 
Yet still entire the Abbey stood. 
Like veteran, worn, but unsubdued. 

XI. 

Soon as they near'd his turrets strong, 
The maidens raised Saint Hilda's song. 



And with the sea-wave and the wind, 
Their voices, sweetly shrill, combined, 

And made harmonious close ; 
Then, answering from the sandy shore, 
Half drown'd amid the breakers' roar, 

According chorus rose : 
Down to the haven of the Isle, 
The monks and nuns in order file, 
From Cuthbert's cloisters grim ; 
Banner, and cross, and relics there. 
To meet St. Hilda's maids, they bare; 
And, as they caught the sounds on air, 

They echoed back the hymn. 
The islanders, in joyous mood, 
Rush'd emulously through the flood, 

To hale the bark to land ; 
Conspicuous by her veil and hood, 
Signing the cross, the Abbess stood. 
And bless'd them' with her hand. 



Suppose we now the welcome said. 
Suppose the Convent banquet made : 

All through the holy dome, 
Through cloister, aisle, and gallery 
Wherever vestal maid might pry, 
Nor risk to meet unhallow'd eye, 

The stranger sisters roam ; 
Till fell the evening damp with dew, 
And the sharp sea-breeze coldly blew, 
For there, even summer night is chill. 
Then, having stray'd and gazed their 
fill. 

They closed around the fire ; 
And all, in turn, essay'd to paint 
The rival merits of their saint, 

A theme that ne'er can tire 
A holy maid ; for, be it known. 
That their saint's honor is their own. 



Then Whitby's nuns exulting told, 
How to their house three Barons bold 

Must menial service do ; 
While horns blow out a note of shame. 
And monks cry " Fie upon your name i 
In wrath, for loss of sylvan game, 

Saint Hilda's priest ye slew." — 
" This, on Ascension-day, each year. 
While laboring on our harbor-pier. 
Must Herbert, Bruce, and Percy hear " 
They told, how in their convent cell 
A Saxon princess once did dwell, 

The lovely Edelfled ; -^ 
And how, of thousand snakes, each one 
Was changed into a toil of stone. 

When holy Hilda pray'd : 






MARMrON. 



Themselves, within their holy bound. 
Their stony folds had often found. 
They told, how sea-fowls' pinions fail 
As over Whitby's towers they sail,-* 
And, sinking down, with flutterings faint, 
They do their homage to the saint. 



Nor did St. Cuthbert's daughters fail 

To vie with these in holy tale ; 

His body's resting-place, of old, 

How oft their patron changed, they told ; ^'' 

How, when the rude Dane burn'd their 

pile. 
The monks fled forth from Holy Isle ; 
O'er northern mountain, marsh, and moor, 
From sea to sea, from shore to shore. 
Seven years Saint Cuthbert's corpse they 
bore. 

They rested them in fair Melrose ; 
But though, alive, he loved it well, 

Not there his relics might repose ; 
For, wondrous tale to tell ! 

In his stone coffin forth he rides, 

A ponderous bark for river tides, 

Yet light as gossamer it glides, 
Downward to Tilmouth cell. 
Ncr long was his abiding there, 
For southward did the saint repair ; 
Chester-le-Street and Rippon saw 
His holy corpse, ere Wardilaw 

Hail'd him with joy and fear; 
And, after many wanderings past, 
He chose his lordly seat at last, 
Where his cathedral, huge and vast, 

Looks down upon the Wear : 
There, deep in Durham's Gothic shade, 
His relics are in secret laid ; 

But none may know the place, 
Save of his holiest servants three, 
Deep sworn to solemn secrecy, 

Who share that wondrous grace. 



Who may his miracles declare ! 

Even Scotland's dauntless king, and heir, 

(Although with them they led 
Galwegians, wild as ocean's gale. 
And Lodon's knights, all sheathed in mail, 
And the bold men of Teviotdale,) 

Before his standard fled.-° 
'Twas he, to vindicate his reign, 
Edged Alfred's falchion on the Dane, 
And turn'd the Conqueror back again,^9 
When, with his Norman bowyer band. 
He came to waste Northumberland. 



But fain Saint Hilda's nuns would learn 
If, on a rock by Lindisfarne, 
Saint Cuthbert sits, and toils to frame 
The sea-born beads that bear his name : ^ 
Such tales had Whitby's fishers told. 
And said they might his shape behold, 

And hear his anvil sound ; 
A deaden'd clang, — a huge dim form. 
Seen but, and heard, when gathering 
storm 

And night were closing round. 
But this, as tale of idle fame. 
The nuns of Lindisfarne disclaim. 



While round the fire such legends go, 
Far different was the scene of woe. 
Where, in a secret aisle beneath. 
Council was held of life and death. 

It was more dark and lone that vault. 
Than the worst dungeon cell : 

Old Cohvulf 3' built it, for his fault. 
In penitence to dwell. 
When he, for cowl and beads, laid down 
The Saxon battle-axe and crown. 
This den, which, chilling every sense 

Of feeling, hearing, sight. 
Was call'd the Vault of Penitence, 

Excluding air and light. 
Was, by the prelate Sexhelm, made 
A place of burial for such dead, 
As, having died in mortal sin, 
Might not be laid the church withiru 
'Twas now a place of punishment; 
Whence if so loud a shriek were sent. 

As reach'd the upper air. 
The hearers bless' d themselves, and said, 
The spirits of the sinful dead 

Bemoan'd their torments there. 



But though, in the monastic pile, 
Did of this penitential aisle 

Some vague tradition go. 
Few only, save the Abbot, knew 
Where the place lay ; and still more few 
Were those, who had from him the clew 

To that dread vault to go. 
Victim and executioner 
Were blindfold when transported there. 
In low dark rounds the arches hung. 
From the rude rock the side-walls sprung ; 
The grave-stones, rudely sculptured o'er, 
Half sunk in earth, by time half wore. 
Were all the pavement of the floor : 







6o 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The mildew-drops fell one by one, 
With tinkling plash, upon the stone. 
A cresset,* in an iron chain. 
Which served to light this drear domain, 
With damp and darkness seem'd to strive, 
As if it scarce might keep alive ; 
And yet it dimly served to show 
The awful conclave met below. 



There, met to doom in secrecy, 

Were placed the heads of convents three : 

All servants of St. Benedict, 

The statutes of whose order strict 

On iron table lay ; 
In long black dress, on seats ot stone, 
Behind were these three judges sliown 

By the pale cresset's ray : 
The Abbess of Saint Hilda's, there, 
Sat for a space with visage bare. 
Until, to hide her bosom's swell, 
And tear-drops that for pity fell, 

She closely drew her veil : 
Yon shrouded figure, as I guess, 
By her proud mien and flowing dress, 
Is Tynemouth's haughty Prioress,^- 

And she with awe looks pale : 
And he, that Ancient Man, whose sight 
Has long been cjuench'd by age's night, 
Upon whose wrinkled brow alone, 
Nor ruth, nor mercy's trace, is shown, 

Whose look is hard and stern, — 
Saint Cuthbert's Abbot is his style ; 
For sanctity call'd, through the isle. 

The Saint of Lindisfarne. 

XX. 

Before them stood a guilty pair ; 
But, though an equal fate they share, 
Yet one alone deserves our care. 
Her sex a page's dress belied ; 
The cloak and doublet, loosely tied. 
Obscured her charms, but could not hide. 

Her cap down o'er her face she drew ; 
And, on her doublet breast. 

She tried to hide the badge of blue, 
Lord Marmion's falcon crest. 
But, at the Prioress' command, 
A Monk undid the silver band, 

That tied her tresses fair, 
And raised the bonnet from her head. 
And down her slender form they spread. 

In ringlets rich and rare. 
Constance de Beverley they know. 
Sister profess'd of Fontevraud, 



♦Antique chandelier. 



Whom the church n umber' d with the 

dead. 
For broken vows, and convent fled. 

XXI. 

When thus her face was given to view, 
(Although so pallid was her hue, 
It did a ghastly contrast bear 
To those bright ringlets glistering fair,j 
Her look composed, and steady eye, 
Bespoke a matchless constancy ; 
And there she stood so calm and pale, 
That, but her breathing did not fail, 
And motion slight of eye and head, 
And of her bosom, warranted 
That neither sense nor pulse she lacks, 
You might have thought a form of wax. 
Wrought to the very life, was there ; 
So still she was, so pale, so fair. 

XXII. 
Her comrade was a sordid soul, 

Such as does murder for a meed ; 
Who, but of fear, knows no control. 
Because his conscience, sear'd and foul, 

Feels not the import of his deed ; 
One, whose brute-feeling ne'er aspires 
Beyond his own more brute desires. 
Such tools the Tempter ever needs, 
To do the savagest of deeds ; 
For them no vision'd terrors daunt, 
Their nights no fancied spectres haunt. 
One fear with them, of all most base. 
The fear of death, — alone finds place. 
This wretch was clad in frock and cowl. 
And shamed not loud to moan and howl. 
His body on the floor to dash, 
And crouch, like hound beneath the lash 
While his mute partner, standing near, 
Waited her doom without a tear. 

XXIII. 

Yet well the luckless wretch might shriek 
Well might her paleness terror speak ! 
For there were seen in that dark wall, 
Two niches, narrow, deep, and tall ; — 
Who enters at such grisly door. 
Shall ne'er, I ween, find exit more. 
In each a slender meal was laid, 
Of roots, of water, and of bread ; 
By each, in Benedictine dress. 
Two haggard monks stood motionless ; 
Who, holding high a blazing torch, 
Show'd tiie grim entrance of the porch : 
Reflecting back the smoky beam, 
The dark-red walls and arches gleam. 
Hewn stones and cement were display'd 
And building tools in order laid. 



^ 



^ 



'W 




"Before them stood a guilty pair." 

Canto ii. 20. 




_t£. 




MAR I\ II ON. 



61 



These executioners were cliose, 
As men who were with mankind foes, 
And with despite and envy fired, 
Into the cloister had retired ; 

Ot who, in desperate dofibt of grace, 
Strove, by deep penance, to efface 

Of some foul crime the stain ; 
For, as the vassals of her will. 
Such men the Church selected still, 
As either joy'd m doing ill, 

Or thought more grace to gain, 
If, in her cause, they wrestled down, 
Feelings their nature strove to own. 
By strange device were they brought there. 
They knew not how, nor knew not where. 



And now that blind old Abbot rose. 
To speak the Chapter's doom. 

On those the wall was to enclose. 
Alive, within the tomb,^^ 

But stopp'd, because that woeful Maid, 

Gathering her powers, to speak essay'd. 

Twice she essay'd, and twice in vain ; 

Her accents might no utterance gain ; 

Nought but imperfect murmurs slip 

From her convulsed and quivering lip ; 
'Twixt each attempt all was so still. 
You seem'd to hear a distant rill — 

'Twas ocean's swells and falls ; 
For though this vault of sin and fear 
Was to the sounding surge so near, 
A tempest there you scarce could hear, 
So massive were the walls. 



At length, an effort sent apart 
The blood that curdled to her heart, 

And light came to her eye, 
And color dawn'd upon her cheek, 
A hectic and a fiutter'd streak. 
Like that left on the Cheviot peak, 

By Autumn's stormy sky ; 
And when her silence broke at length, 
Still as she spoke she gather'd strength, 

And arm'd herself to bear. 
It was a fearful sight to see 
Such high resolve and constancy, 

In form so soft and fair. 



" I speak not to implore your grace ; 
Well know I, for one minute's space 

Successless might I sue: 
Nor do I speak your prayers to gain ; 
For if a diath of lingering pain. 



^ 



To cleanse my sins, be penance vain, 

Vain are your masses too. — 
I listen'd to a traitor's tale, 
I left the convent and the veil ; 
For three long vears I bow'd my pride, 
A horse-boy in his train to ride ; 
And well my folly's meed he gave^ 
Who forfeited, to be his slave. 
All here, and all beyond the grave. — 
He saw young Clara's face more fair, 
He knew her of broad lands the heir. 
Forgot his vows, his faith forswore, 
And Constance was beloved no more.— 

'Tis an old tale, and often told 
But did my fate and wish agree. 

Ne'er had been read, in story old. 

Of maiden true betray'd for gold, 
That loved, or was avenged, like me 



" The King approved his favorite's aim ? 
In vain a rival barr'd his claim. 

Whose fate with Clare's was plight. 
For he attaints that rival's fame 
With treason's charge — and on they came 

In mortal lists to fight. 
Their oaths are said. 
Their prayers are pray'd, 
Their lances in the rest are laid. 

They meet in mortal shock ; 
And, hark! the throng, with thunderins 

cry, 
Shout ' Marmion, Marmion ! to the sky, 

De Wilton to the block 1 ' 
Say ye, who preach Heaven shall decide 
When in the lists two champions ride, 

Say, was Heaven's justice here ! 
When, loyal in his love and faith, 
Wilton found overthrow or death. 

Beneath a traitor's spear ? 
How false the charge, how true he fell, 
This guilty packet best can tell." — 
Then drew a packet from her breast. 
Paused, gather'd voice, and spoke the rest 



" Still was false Marmion's bridal staid ; 
To Whitby's convent fled the maid. 

The hated match to shun. 
' Ho ! shifts she thus ? ' King Henry cried. 
' Sir Marmion, she shall be thy bride. 

If she were sworn a nun.' 
One way remain'd — the King's command 
Sent Marmion to the Scottish land ; 
I linger'd here, and rescue plann'd 

For Clara and for me: 





62 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



This caitiff Monk, for gold, did swear, 
He would to Wliitby's shrine repair, 
And, by liis drugs, my rival fair 
A saint in heaven should be. 
But ill the dastard kept his oath, 
Whose cowardice has undone us both. 



-' And now my tongue the secret tells. 
Not that remorse my bosom swells, 
Liut to assure my soul that none 
Shall ever wed with Marmion. 
Had fortune my last hope betray'd. 
This packet, to the King convey'd. 
Had given him to the headsman's stroke. 
Although my heart that instant broke. — ■ 
Now, men of death, work forth your will. 
For I can suffer, and be still ; 
And come he slow, or come he fast, 
It is but Death who comes at last. 



" Yet dread me, from my living tomb. 
Ye vassal slaves of bloody Rome 1 
If Marmion's late remorse should wake. 
Full soon siich vengeance will he take. 
That you shall wish the fiery Dane 
Had rather been your guest again. 
Behind, a darker hour ascends ! 
The altars quake, the crosier bends. 
The ire of a despotic King 
Rides forth upon destruction's wing ; 
Then shall these vaults, so strong and deep. 
Burst open to the sea-winds' sweep ; 
Some traveller then shall find my bones 
Whitening amid disjointed stones. 
And, ignorant of priests' cruelty, 
Marvel such relics here should be." 



Fix'd was her look, and stern her air : 
Back from her shoulders stream'd her hair ; 
The locks, that wont her brow to shade. 
Stared up erectly from her head ; 
Her figure seem'd to rise more high ; 
Her voice, despair's wild energy 
Had given a tone of prophecy. 
Appall'd the astonish'd conclave sate ; 
With stupid eyes, the men of fate 
Gazed on the light inspired form, 
And listen'd for the avenging storm ; 
The judges felt the victim's dread ; 
No hand was moved, no word was said. 
Till thus the Abbot's doom was given, 
Raising his sightless balls to heaven : — 
" Sister, let thy sorrows cease ; 
Sinful brother, part in peace 1 '' 



From that dire dungeon, place of doom. 
Of execution too, and tomb. 

Paced forth the judges three ; 
Sorrow it were, and shame, to tell 
The butcher-work that there befell, 
When they had glided from the cell 

Of sji and misery. 



An hundred winding steps convey 
That conclave to the upper day ; 
But, ere they breathed the fresher air. 
They heard the shriekings of despair. 

And many a stifled groan ; 
With speed their upward way they take, 
(Such speed as age and fear can make,) 
And cross'd themselves for terror's sake, 

As hurrying, tottering on ; 
Even in the vesper's heavenly tone. 
They seem'd to hear a dying groan, 
And bade the passing knell to toll 
For welfare of a parting soul. 
Slow o'er the midnight wave it swung, 
Northumbrian rocks in answer rung ; 
To Warkworth cell the echoes roll'd. 
His beads the wakeful hermit told, 
The Bamborough peasant raised his head, 
But slept ere half a prayer he said ; 
So far was heard the mighty knell, 
The stag sprung up on Cheviot Fell, 
Spread his broad nostril to the wind, 
Listed before, aside, behind, 
Then couch'd him down beside the hind. 
And quaked among the mountain fern, 
To hear that sound to dull and stern. 



INTRODUCTION TO CANTO 
THIRD. 

TO WILLIAM ERSKINE, ESQ.* 

Ashesticl, Ettrick Forest, 

Like April morning clouds, that pass. 
With varying shadow, o'er the grass. 
And imitate, on field and furrow. 
Life's chequer'd scene of joy and sorrow, 
Like streamlet of the mountain north, 
Now in a torrent racing forth. 
Now winding slow its silver train. 
And almost slumbering on the plain ; 



* A Judge of the Court of Sessions, after- 
wards, by title, Lord Kinnedder. He died in 
1822. 



LrrFi= 





MARMION 



6.3 



Like breezes of the autumn day, 

Whose voice inconstant dies away, 

And ever swells again as fast, 

When the ear deems its murmur past ; 

Thus various, my romantic theme 

Flits, winds, or sinks, a morning dream. 

Yet pleased, our eye pursues the trace 

Of Light and Shade's inconstant race ; 

Pleased, views the rivulet atar, 

Weaving its maze irregular ; 

And pleased, we listen as the breeze 

Heaves its wild sigh through Autumn trees ; 

Then, wild as cloud, or stream, or gale, 

Flow on, flow unconfined, my Tale ! 

Need I to thee, dear Erskine, tell 
I love the license all too well. 
In sounds now lowly, and now strong, 
To raise the desultory song? — 
Oft, when "mid such capricious chime, 
Some transient fit of lofty rhyme 
To thy kind judgment seem'd excuse 
For many an error of the muse. 
Oft hast thou said, " If, still misspent, 
Thine hours to poetry are lent, 
Go, and to tame thy wandering course. 
Quaff from the fountam at the sou.ce ; 
Approach those masters, o'er whose tomb 
Immortal laurels ever bloom . 
Instructive of the feebler bard. 
Still from the grave their voice is heard. 
From them, and from the paths they 

show'd. 
Choose honor'd guide and practised road ; 
Nor ramble on through brake and maze, 
With harpers rude, of barbarous dr.ys. 

" Or deem'st thou not our later time 
Yields topic meet for classic rhyme? 
Hast thou no elegiac verse 
For Brunswick's venerable hearse ? 
What, not a line, a tear, a sigh. 
When valor bleeds for liberty ? — 
Oh, hero of that glorious tune. 
When, with unrivall'd light sublime, — 
Though martial Austria, and though all 
The might of Russia, and the Gaul, 
Though banded Europe stood her foes — 
The star of Brandenburgh arose ! 
Thou could'st not live to see her beam 
Forever quench'd in Jena's stream. 
Lamented chief ! — it was not given 
To thee to change the doom of Heaven, 
And crush that dragon in its birth. 
Predestined scourge of guilty earth. 
Lamented chief ! — not thine the power, 
To save in that presumptuous hour. 



When Prussia hurried to the field, 

And snatch'd the spe^r, but left the shield; 

Valor and skill "twas thine to try, 

And, tried in vain, 'twas thine to die. 

Ill had it seem"d thy silver hair 

The last, the bitterest pang to share, 

For princedoms reft, and scutcheons riven, 

And birthrights to usurpers given ; 

Thy land's, thy children's wrongs to feel, 

And witness woes thou could'st not heal. 

On thee relenting Heaven bestows 

For honor'd life an honor'd close ; 

And when revolves, in time's sure changes 

The hour of Germany's revenge. 

When, breathing fury for her sake. 

Some new Armenius shall awake 

Her champion, ere he strike, shall come 

To whet his sword on Brunswick's tomb. 

" Or of the Red-Cross hero * teach, 
Dauntless in dungeon as on breach : 
Alike to him, the sea, the shore, 
The brand, the bridle, or the oar : 
Alike to him the war that calls 
Its votaries to the shatter'd walls, 
Which the grim Turk, besmear'd with 

blood. 
Against the Invincible made good ; 
Or that, whose thundering voice would vvake 
The silence of the polar lake, 
When stubborn Russ, and metall'd Swede, 
On the warp'd wave their death-game 

play'd ; 
Or that, where 'Vengeance and Affright 
Howl'd round the father of the fight, 
Who snatch'd, on Alexandria's sand. 
The conqueror's wreath with dying hand, t 

" Or, if to touch such chord be thine. 
Restore the ancient tragic line, 
And emulate the notes that rung 
From the wild harp, which silent hung 
By silver Avon's holy shore, 
Till twice an hundred years roll'd o'er ; 
When she, the bold Enchantress, { came, 
With fearless hand and heart on flame ! 
From the pale willow snatch'd the treasure, 
And swept it with a kindred measure. 
Till Avon's swans, while rung the grove 
With Montfort's hate and Basil's love, 
Awakening at the inspired strain, 
Deem'd their own Shakespeare lived again." 



* Sir Sidney Smith. 

t Sir Ralph Abercrom'oy. 

X Joanna Baiilie. 






^ 



64 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Thy friendship thus thy judgment wrong- 
ing, 
With praises not to me belongmg, 
In task more meet for mightiest powers, 
Wouldst thou engage my thriftless hours. 
But say, my Erskine, hast thou vveigh'd 
That secret power by all obey'd, 
Which warps not less the passive mind. 
Its source conceal'd or undefined; 
Whether an impulse, that has birth 
Soon as the infant wakes on earth, 
One with our feelings and our powers, 
.'\nd rather part of us than ours ; 
Or whether fitlier term'd tlie sway 
Of habit form'd in early day ? 
Howe'er derivsd, its force confest 
Rules with despotic sway the breast, 
And drags us on by viewless chain, 
While taste and reason plead in vain. 
Look east, and ask the Belgian why, 
Beneath Batavia's sultry sky, 
He seeks not eager to inhale 
The freshness of the mountain gale, 
Content to rear his whiten'd wall 
Beside the dank and dull canal ? 
He'll say, from youth he loved to see 
The white sail gliding by the tree. 
Or see yon weatherbeaten hind. 
Whose sluggish herds before him wind. 
Whose tatter'd plaid and rugged cheek 
His northern clime and kindred speak; 
Through England's laughing meads he 

goes, 
A.nd England's wealth around him flows ; 
A.jk, if it would content him well, 
At ease in those gay plains to dwell, 
Where hedge-rows spread a verdant screen, 
And spires and forests intervene. 
And the neat cottage peeps between ? 
No ! not for these will he exchange 
His dark Lochaber's boundless range : 
Not for fair Devon's meads forsake 
Bennevis gray, and Garry's lake. 



Thus, while I ape the measure wild 
Of tales that charm'd me yet a child, 
Rude though they be, still with the chime 
Return the thoughts of early time ; 
And feelings, roused in life's first day, 
Glow in the line, and prompt tlie lay. 
Then rise those crags, that mountain tower, 
Which charm'd my fancy's wakening hour. 
Though no broad river swept along. 
To claim, perchance, lieroic song ; 
Though sigh'd no groves in summer gale, 
To prompt of love a softer tale : 



Though scarce a puny streamlet's speed 

Claim'd homage from a shepherd's reed ; 

Yet was poetic impulse given. 

By the green hill and clear blue heaven. 

It was a barren scene, and wild. 

Where naked cliffs were rudely piled ; 

But ever and anon between 

L;i.y velvet tufts of loveliest green ; 

And well the lonely infant knew 

Recesses where the wall-flower grew. 

And honey-suckle loved to crawl 

Up the low crag and ruin'd wall. 

I deem'd such nooks the sweetest shade 

The sun in all its round survey'd ; 

And still J thought that shatter'd towet* 

The mightiest work of human power ; 

And marvell'd as the aged hind 

With some strange tale bewitch'd my mind, 

Of forayers, who, wi^h headlong force, 

Down from that strength had spurr'd their 

horse. 
Their southern rapine to renew. 
Far in the distant Cheviots blue. 
And, home returning, fill'd the hall 
With revel, wassail-rout, and brawl. 
Methought that still with trump and clang 
The gateway's broken arches rang ; 
Methought grim features, seam'd vi'ith 

scars. 
Glared through the window's rusty bars, 
And ever, by the winter hearth. 
Old tales I heard of wee or mirth. 
Of lovers' slights, of ladies' charms, 
Of witches' spells, of warriors' arms ; 
Of patriot battles, won of old 
By Wallace wight and Bruce the bold ; 
Of later fields of feud and fight, 
When, pouring from their Highland height, 
The .Scottish clans, in neadlong sway. 
Had swept the scarlet ranks away. 
While stretch'd at length upon the floor. 
Again I fought each combat o'er. 
Pebbles and shells, in order laid. 
The mimic ranks of war display'd ; 
And onward still the Scottish Lion bore, 
And still the scatter'd Southron fled before 

Still, with vain fondness, could I trace. 
Anew, each kind familiar face. 
That brighten'd at our evening fire ! 
From the thatch'd mansion's gray-hair'd 
Sire,t 



* Smailholm tower, in Berwickshire, 
t Robert Scott of Sandyknows, the grand- 
father of the poet. 





j£ 



MARMION. 



65 



Wise without learning, plain and good, 
And sprung of Scotland's gentler blood ; 
Whose ej-e, in age, quick, ciear, and keen, 
Show'd wiiat in youth its glance had been : 
Whose doom discording neighbors sought, 
Content with equity unbought ; 
To him the venerable Priest, 
Our frequent and familiar guest. 
Whose life and manners well could paint 
Alike the student and the saint ; 
Alas ! whose speech too oft I broke 
With gambol rude and timeless joke : 
For I was wayward, bold, and wild, 
A self-will'd imp, a grandame's child ; 
But half a plague, and half a jest, 
Was still endured, beloved, caress'd. 

Fcr me, thus nurtured, dost thou ask 
The classic poet's v.ell-conn'd task? 
Nay, Erskine, nay — On the wild hill 
Let the wild heath-bell flourish still ; 
Cherish the tulip, prune the vine. 
But freely let the woodbine twine, 
And leave untrimm'd the eglantine : 
Nay, my friend, nay — Since oft thy praise 
Hatli given fresh vigor to my lays ; 
Since oft thy judgment could refine 
My flatten'd thought, or cumbrous line ; 
Still kind, as is thy wont, attend. 
And in the minstrel spare the friend. 
Though wild as cloud, as stream, as gale, 
Flow forth, flow unrestrain'd, my Tale ! 



CANTO THIRD. 

THE HOSTEL, OR INN. 



The lifelong day Lord Marmion rode : 
Tlie mountain path the Palmer show'd, 
By glen and streamlet winded still. 
Where stunted birches hid the rill. 
They might not choose the lowland road. 
For the Merse forayers were abroad, 
Who, fired with hate and thirst of prey. 
Had scarcely fail'd to bar their way. 
Oft on the trampling band, from crown 
Of some tall cliff, the deer look'd down ; 
On wing of jet, from his repose 
In the deep heath, the black-cock rose ; 
Sprung from the gorse the timid roe. 
Nor waited for the bending bow ; 
And when the stony path began. 
By which the naked peak they wan. 
Up flew the snowy ptarmigan. 



The noon had long been pass'd before 
They gain'd the height of Lammermoor; 
Thence winding down the northern way 
Before them, at the close of day. 
Old Gifford's towers and hamlet lay. 



No summons calls them to the tower, 

To spend the hospitable hour. 

To Scotland's camp the Lord was gone; 

His cautious dame, in bower alone. 

Dreaded her castle to unclose. 

So late, to unknown friends or foes. 

On through the Iiamlet as they paced. 

Before a porch, whose front was graced 

With bush and flagon trimly placed, 

Lord Marmion chew his rein : 
Tiie village inn seem'd large, though rude ; ^ 
Its cheerful fire and hearty food 

Might well relieve his train. 
Down from their seats the horsemen 

sprung, 
With jingling spurs the court-yard rung ; 
Tliey bind their horses to the stall, 
For forage, food, and firing call, 
.And various clamor fills the hall : 
Weighing the labor with the cost, 
Toils everywhere the bustling host. 



Soon, by the chimney's merry blaze. 
Through the rude hostel might you gaze; 
Might see, where, in dark nook aloof. 
The rafters of the sooty roof 

Bore wealth of winter cheer; 
Of sea-fowl dried, and solands store. 
And gammons of the tusky boar, 

And savory haunch of deer. 
The chimney arch projected wide ; 
Above, around it, and beside, 

W'ere tools for housewives' hand ; 
Nor wanted, in that martial day, 
The implements of Scottish fray. 

The buckler, lance, and brand. 
Beneath its shade, the place of state, 
On oaken settle Marmion sate, 
And view'd around the blazing hearth. 
His followers mix in noisy mirth ; 
Whom with brown ale, in jolly tide, 
From ancient vessels ranged aside. 
Full actively their host supplied. 



Theirs was the glee of martial breast, 
And laughter theirs at little jest; 
.And oft Lord Marmion deign'd to aid, 
.And mingle in the mirth they made; 







66 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



For though with men of high degree, 
The proudest of the proud was he, 
Vet, tram'd in camps, he knew the art 
To win the soldier's hardy heart. 
They love a captain to obey, 
Boisterous as March, yet fresh as May : 
With open hand and brow as tree, 
Lover of wine and minstrelsy ; 
Ever the first to scale a tower, 
As venturous in a lady's bower : — 
Such buxom chief shall lead his host 
Fi'om India's fires to Zembla's frost. 



Resting upon his pilgrim staff, 

Right opposite the Palmer stood; 
His thin dark visage seen but half, 

Half hidden by his hood. 
Still fix'd on Marmion was his look. 
Which he, who ill such gaze could brook, 

Strove by a frown to quell ; 
But not for that, though more than once 
Full met their stern encountering glance, 

The Palmer's visage fell. 



By fits less frequent from the crowd 
Was heard the burst of laughter loud ; 
For still, as squire and archer stared 
On that dark face and matted beard. 

Their glee and game declined. 
All gazed at length in silence drear, 
Unbroke, save when in comrade's ear 
Some yeoman, wondering in his fear, 

Thus whispei'd forth his mind . — 
" Saint Mary ! saw'st thou e'er such sight? 
How pale his cheek, his eye how bright. 
Whene'er the firebrand's fickle light, 

Glances beneath his cowl ! 
Full on our Lord lie sets his eye ; 
For his best palfrey, would not 1 

Endure that sullen scowl." 



But Marmion, as to chase the awe 

\\'hich thus had quell'd their hearts, who 

saw 
The ever-varying firelight show 
That figure stern and face of woe, 

Now call'd upon a squire . — 
" Fitz-Eustace, know'st thou not some lay, 
To speed the lingering night away.'' 

We slumber by the fire." — 

VI !i. 
''So please you," thus the youth rejoin'd, 
"Our choicest minstrel's left behind. 



Ill may we hope to please your ear, 
.A.ccustom'd Constant's strain to hear. 
The harp full deftly can he strike, 
And wake the lover's lute alike; 
To dear Saint Valentine, no thriisli 
Sings livelier from a spring-tide bush. 
No nightingale her lovelorn tune 
More sweetly warbles to the moon. 
Woe to the cause, whate'er it be, 
Detains from us his melody, 
Lavish'd on rocks, and billows stern, 
Or duller monks of Lindislarne. 
Now must I venture, as I may. 
To sing his lavonte roundelay.'' 



A mellow voice Fitz-Eustace had, 
The air he chose was wild and sad; 
Such have I heard, in Scottish land. 
Rise from the busy harvest band, 
When falls before the mountaineer. 
On Lowland plains the npen'd ear. 
Now one shrill voice the notes prolong, 
Now a wild chorus swells the song : 
Oft have I listen'd and stood still, 
As it came sotten'd up the lull, 
And deem'd it the lament of men 
Who languish'd tor tlieir native glen ; 
And thought how sad would be such sound 
On Susquehanna's swampy ground, 
Kentucky's wood-encumber'd brake. 
Or wild Ontario's boundless lake, 
Where heart-sick exiles, in the strain, 
Recall'd fair Scotland's hills again ! 

X. 

SONG. 

Where shall the lover rest. 

Whom the fates sever 
From his true maiden's breast. 

Parted forever .' 
Where, through groves deep and high, 

Sounds the far billow. 
Where early violets die, 

Under the willow. 

CHORUS. 

Eleii loro, etc. Soft shall be his pillow. 

There, through the summer day. 

Cool streams are laving , 
There, while the tempests sway. 

Scarce are boughs waving ; 
There, thy rest shalt thou take, 

Parted forever. 
Never again to wake, 

Never, O never I 







MARMION. 



CHORUS. 

Eleu loro, &c. Never, O never 1 

XI. 

Where shall the traitor rest, 

He, the deceiver, 
Who could win maiden's breast, 

Ruin, and leave her 1 
In the lost battle. 

Borne down by the flying, 
Where mingles war's rattle 

With groans of the dying. 

CHORUS. 

Eleu loro, &c. There shall he be lying. 
Her wing shall the eagle flap 

O'er the false-hearted ; 
His warm blood the wolf shall lap, 

Ere life be parted. 
Shame and dishonor sit 

By his grave ever, 
Blessing shall hallow it, — 

Never, O never ! 

CHORUS. 

Eleic loro, &c. Never, O never ! 



It ceased, the melancholy sound ; 
And silence sunk on all around. 
The air was sad ; but sadder still 

It fell on Marmion's ear, 
And plain'd as if disgrace and ill. 

And shameful death, were near. 
He drew his mantle past his face, 

Between it and the band, 
And rested with his head a space, 

Reclining on his hand. 
His thoughts I scan not ; but I ween. 
That, could their import have been seen, 
The meanest groom in all the hall. 
That e'er tied courser to a stall, 
Would scarce have wish'd to be their prey. 
For Lutterward and Fontenaye. 

XIII. 

High minds, of native pride and force. 
Most deeply feel thy pangs. Remorse ! 
Fear, for their scourge, mean villains have. 
Thou art the torturer of the brave ! 
Vet fatal strength they boast to steel 
Their minds to bear the wounds they feel. 
Even while they writhe beneath the smart 
Of civil conflict in the heart. 
For soon Lord Marmion raised his head. 
And, smiling, to Fitz-Eustace said, — 
" Is it not strange, that, as ye sung, 
Seem'd in mine ear a death-peal rung, 



Such as in nunneries they toll 
For some departing sister's soul ? 

Say, what may this portend ? " — 
Then first the Palmer silence broke, 
(The livelong day he had not spoke,) 

" The death of a dear friend." ^^ 

XIV. 

Marmion, whose steady heart and eye 
Ne'er changed in worst extremity ; 
Marmion, whose soul could scantly brook. 
Even from his King, a haughty look ; 
Whose accent of command controll'd, 
In camps, the boldest of the bold — 
Thought, look, and utterance fail'd him 

now, 
Fall'n was his glance, and flush'd his brow; 

For either in the tone. 
Or something in the Palmer's look, 
So full upon his conscience strook, 

That answer he found none. 
Thus oft it haps, that when within 
They shrink at sense of secret sin, 

A feather daunts the brave ; 
A fool's wild speech confounds the wise, 
And proudest princes vail their eyes 

Before their meanest slave. 



Well might he falter ! — By his aid 

Was Constance Beverley betray'd. 

Not that he augur'd of the doom. 

Which on the living closed the tomb: 

But, tired to hear the desperate maid 

Threaten by turns, beseech, upbraid ; 

And wroth, because, in wild despair, 

She practised on the life of Clare; 

Its fugitive the Church he gave, 

Though not a victim, but a slave; 

And deem'd restraint in convent strange 

Would hide her wrongs, and her revenge. 

Himself, proud Henry's favorite peer. 

Held Romish thunders idle fear. 

Secure his pardon he might hold, 

For some slight mulct of penance-gold. 

This judging, he gave secret way, 

When the stern priests surprised their prey 

His train but deem'd the favorite page 

Was left behind, to spare his age ; 

Or other if they deem'd, none dared 

To mutter what he thought and heard : 

Woe to the vassal, who durst pry 

Into Lord Marmion's privacy ! 



His conscience slept — he deem'd her well, 
And safe secured in distant cell : 





j£ 




68 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



But, waken' d by her favorite lay, 
And that strange Palmer's boding say, 
That fell so ominous and drear. 
Full on the object of his fear, 
To aid remorse's venom'd throes, 
Dark tales of convent-vengeance rose ; 
And Constance, late betray'd and scorn'd, 
All lovely on his soul return'd ; 
Lovely as when, at treacherous call. 
She left her convent's peaceful wall 
Crimson'd with shame, with terror mute, 
Dreading alike escape, pursuit, 
Till love, victorious o'er alarms. 
Hid fears and blushes in his arms. 

XVII. 

•'Alas!" he thought, "how changed that 

mien I 
How changed these timid looks have been, 
Since years of guilt, and of disguise. 
Have steel'd her brow, and arm'd her eyes ! 
No more of virgin terror speaks 
The blood that mantles in her cheeks ; 
Fierce, and unfeminine, are there, 
Frenzy for joy, for grief despair ; 
And I the cause — for whom were given 
Her peace on earth, her hopes in heaven ! — 
Would,'' thought he, as the picture grows, 
" I on its stalk had left the rose I 
Oh, why should man's success remove 
The very charms that wake his love ! 
Her convent's peaceful solitude 
Is now a prison harsh and rude. 
And, pent within the narrow cell, 
How will her spirit chafe and swell ! 
How brook the stern monastic laws ! 
The penance how — and I the cause ! 
Vigil and scourge — perchance even 

worse 1 "* — 
And twice he rose to cry, " To horse ! " — 
And twice his Sovereign's mandate came. 
Like damp upon a kindling flame ; 
And twicfe he thought, " Gave I not charge 
She should be safe, though not at large .' 
They durst not, for their island, shred 
One golden ringlet from her head." 



While thus in Marmion's bosom strove 
Repentance and reviving love. 
Like whirlwinds, whose contending sway 
I've seen Loch Vennachar obey. 
Their Host the Palmer's speech had heard. 
And, talkative, took up the word : 
" Ay, reverend Pilgrim, you, who stray 
From Scotland's simple land away, 
To visit realms afar, 



Full often learn the art to knowr 
Of future weal, or future woe, 

By word, or sign, or star ; 
Yet might a knight his fortune hear, 
If, knight-like, he despises fear, 
Not far from hence ; — if fathers old 
Aright our hamlet legend told." — 
These broken words the menials move, 
(For n.arvels still the vulgar love,) 
And, Marmion giving license cold, 
His tale th2 host thus gladly told :— 



THE HOST S TALE. 

" A Clerk could tell what years have flown 

Since Alexander fill'd our throne, 

(Third monarch of that warlike name,) 

And eke the time when here he came 

To seek Sir Hugo, then our lord : 

A braver never drew a sword ; 

A wiser never, at the hour 

Of midnight, spoke the word of power: 

The same, whom ancient records call 

The founder of the Goblin-Hall.^^ 

1 would. Sir Knight, your longer stay 

Gave you that cavern to survey. 

Of lofty roof, and ample size. 

Beneath the castle deep it lies : 

To hew the living rock profound. 

The floor to pave, the arch to round. 

There never toil'd a mortal arm. 

It all was wrought by word and charm ; 

And I have heard my grandsire say, 

That the wild clamor and affray 

Of those dread artisans of hell. 

Who labor'd under Hugo's spell. 

Sounded as loud as ocean's war. 

Among the caverns of Dunbar, 



" The King Lord Gifford's castle sought^ 
Deep laboring with uncertain thought ; 
Even then he muster'd all his host. 
To meet upon the western coast : 
For Norse and Danish galleys plied 
Their oars within the frith of Clyde. 
There floated Haco's banner trim,^' 
Above Norweyan warriors grim. 
Savage of heart, and large of limb , 
Threatening both continent and isle, 
Bute, Arran, Cunninghame, and Kyle. 
Lord Gifford, deep beneath the ground. 
Heard Alexander's bugle sound. 
And tarried not his garb to change. 
But, in his wizard habit strange, 
Came forth, — a quaint and fearful sight i 
His mantle lined with fox-skins white ; 







MARMION. 



69 



His high and wrinkled forehead bore 

A pointed cap, such as of yore 

Clerics say that Pharaoh's Magi wore; 

His shoes were niarl<'d with cross and spell, 

Upon his breast a pentacle ; ^^ _ 

His zone, of virgin parchment thin, 

Or, as some tell, of dead man's skm, 

Bore many a planetary sign, 

Combust, and retrograde, and trine ; 

And in his hand lie^held prepared, 

A naked sword without a guard. 

xx:. 
" Dire dealings with the fiendish race 
Had mark'd strange lines upon his face ; 
Vigil and fast had worn him grim, ^ 
His eyesight dazzled seem'd and dim, 
As one unused to upper day ;^ 
Even his own menials with dismay 
Beheld,, Sir Knight, the grisly Sire, 
In his unwonted wild attire ; 
Unwonted, for traditions run, 
He seldom thus beheld the sun.— 
f I know,' he said— his voice was hoarse. 
And broken seem'd its hollow force,— 
' 1 know the cause, although untold, 
Why the King seeks his vassal's hold: 
Vainly from me my liege would know 
His kingdom's future weal or woe ; 
But vet, if strong his arm and heart, 
His courage may do more than art. 

XXII. 

" ' Of middle air the demons proud, 
Who ride upon the racking cloud. 
Can read, in fix'd or wandering star, 
The issue of events afar ; 
But still their sullen aid withhold. 
Save when by mightier force controll'd. 
Such late I summon'd to my hall ; 
And though so potent was the call, 
That scarce the deepest nook of hell 
1 deem'd a refuge from the spell, 
Yet, obstinate in silence still. 
The haughty demon mocks my skill. 
But thou— who little know'st thy might, 
As born upon that blessed night ^9 
When yawning graves, and dying groan, 
Proclaim'd hell's empire overthrown,— 
With untaught valor shall compel 
Response denied to magic spell' 
' Gramercy,' quoth our Monarch free, 
'Place him but front to front with me, 
And, by this good and honor'd brand, 
The gift of Coeur-de-Lion's hand, 
Soothly I swear, that, tide what tide, 
The demon shall a buffet bide.'— 



the 



His bearing bold the wizard view'd, 

And thus, well pleased, his speech re 

new'd ; — 
'There spoke the blood of Malcolm !- 

mark • 
Forth pacing hence, at midnight dark, 
The rampart seek, whose circling crown 
Crests the ascent of yonder down . 
A southern entrance shalt thou find ; 
There halt, and there thy bugle wind, 
And trust thine elfin foe to see, 
In guise of thy worst enemy : 
Coiich then thy lance, and spur thy steed- 
Upon him ! and Saint George to speed 1 
If he go down, thou soon shalt know 
Whate'er these airy sprites can show ; — 
If thy heart fail thee in the strife, 
I am no warrant for thy life.' 



" Soon as the midnight bell did ring. 
Alone, andarm'd, forth rode the King 
To that old camp's deserted round . 
Sir Knight, you well might mark 

mound. 
Left hand the town,— the Pictish race, 
The trench, long since, in blood did trace ; 
The moor around is brown and bare, 
The space within is green and fair. 
The spot our village children know, 
For there the eariiest wild-flowers grow ; 
But woe betide the wandering wight, 
That treads its circle in the night I 
The breadth across, a bowshot clear. 
Gives ample space for full career : 
Opposed to the four points of heaven, 
By four deep gaps are entrance given. 
The southernmost our Monarch past, 
Halted, and blew a gallant blast ; 
And on the north, within the ring,^_ 
Appear'd the form of England's King, 
Who then, a thousand leagues afar, 
In Palestine waged holy war : 
Yet arms like England's did he wield, 
Alike the leopards in the shield, 
Alike his Syrian courser's frame, 
The rider's length of limb the same: 
Long afterwards did Scotland know, 
FelfEdward* was her deadliest foe. 



XXIV. 

" The vision made our Monarch start, 
But soon he mann'd his noble heart, 
And in the first career they ran, 
The Elfin Knight fell, horse and man i 



f Edward I- of England. 






70 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Yet did a splinter of his lance 
Through Alexander's visor glance, 
And razed the skin — a puny wound. 
The King, light leaping to the ground, 
With naked blade his phantom foe 
CompelFd the future war to show. 
Of Largs lie saw the glorious plain, 
Where still gigantic bones remain, 

Memorial of the Danish war; 
Himself he saw, amid the field. 
On high his brandish'd war-axe wield, 

And strike proud Haco from liis car, 
While all around the shadowy Kings 
Denmark's grim ravens cower'd their wings. 
'Tis said, that, in that awful night, 
Remoter visions met his sight, 
Foreshowing future conquests far. 
When our sons' sons wage northern war ; 
A royal city, tower and spire, 
Redden'd the midnight sky with fire, 
And shouting crews her navy bore, 
Triumphant, to the victor shore.* 
Such signs may learned clerks explain, 
They pass the wit of simple swain. 



" The joyful King turn'd home again, 
Headed his host, and quell'd the Dane ; 
But yearly, when return'd the night 
Of his strange combat with the sprite. 

His wound must bleed and smart ; 
Lord Gifford then would gibing say, 
' Bold as ye were, my liege, ye pay 

The penance of your start.' 
Long since, beneath Dunfermline's nave, 
King Alexander fills his grave, 

Our Lady give him rest ! 
Yet still the knightly spear and shield 
The Elfin Warrior doth wield. 

Upon the brown hill's breast ;''° 
And many a knight hath proved his chance, 
In the charm'd ring to break a lance, 

But all have foully sped ; 
Save two, as legends tell, and they 
Were Wallace wight, and Gilbert Hay.— 

Gentles, my tale is said." 
XXVI. 
The quaighs t were deep, the liquor strong, 
And on the tale the yeoman-throng 
Had made a comment sage and long. 

But Marmion gave a sign : 
And, with their lord, the squires retire ; 
The rest, around the hostel fire. 



* An allusion to the battle of Copenhagen, 
iSoi. 
■*■ Quaigh, a wooden cup. 



Their drowsy limbs recline : 
For pillow, underneath each head, 
The quiver and the targe were laid. 
Deep slumbering on the hostel floor, 
Oppress'd with toil and ale, they snore . 
The dying flame, in fitful change. 
Threw on the group its shadows strange 



Apart, and nestling in the hay 
Of a waste loft, Fitz-Eustace lay ; 
Scarce, by the pale moonlight, were seen 
The foldings of his mantle green : 
Lightly he dreamt, as youth will dream. 
Of sport by thicket, or by stream. 
Of hawk or hound, of ring or glove. 
Or, lighter yet, of ladye's love. 
A cautious tread his slumber broke. 
And, close beside him, when he woke. 
In moonbeam half, and half in gloom. 
Stood a tall form, with nodding plume ; 
But, ere his dagger Eustace drew. 
His master Marmion's voice he knew. 



— "Fitz-Eustace ! rise, I cannot rest; 
Yon churl's wild legend haunts my breast, 
And graver thoughts have chafed my 

mood : 
The air must cool my feverish blood ; 
And fain would I ride forth, to see 
The scene of Elfin chivalry. 
Arise, and saddle me my steed ; 
And, gentle Eustace, take good heed 
Thou dost not rouse these drowsy slaves ; 
I would not, that the prating knaves 
Had cause for saying, o'er their ale, 
That I could credit such a tale." — 
Then softly down the steps they slid, 
Eustace the stable-door undid, 
And, darkling, Marmion's steed array'd. 
While, whispering, thus the Baron said ;— 

XXIX. 

" Did'st never, good my youth, hear tell, 

That on the hour when I was born. 
Saint George, who graced my sire's cha- 

pelle, 
Down from his steed of marble fell. 

A weary wight forlorn ? 
The flattering chaplains all agree, 
The champion left his steed to me. 
I would, the omen's truth to show, 
That I could meet this Elfin Foe ! 
Blithe would I battle, for the right 
To ask one question at the sprite : — 
Vain thought ! for elves, if elves there be. 
An empty race, by fount or sea. 







MA KM ION 



71 



To dashing waters dance and smg, 
Or round the green oak wheel their rin^ 
"Thus speaking, he his steed bestrode, 
And from the hostel slowly rede. 



Fitz-Eustace iollow'd him abroad, 
And niark'd him pace tiie village road, 

And listen'd to his horse's tramp, 
Till, by the lessening sound, 

He judged that of the Pictish camp 
Lord Marmion sought the round. 
Wonder it seem'd, in the squire's eyes, 
That one, so wary held, and wise, — 
Of whom 'twas said, he scarce received 
For gospel, what the church believed,— 

Should, stirr'd by idle tale. 
Ride forth m silence of the night, 
As hcpmg half to meet a sprite, 

Array'd in plate and mail. 
For little did Fitz-Eustace know, 
That passions in contending flow. 

Unfix the strongest mind ; 
Wearied from doubt to doubt to flee, 
We welcome fondly credulity. 

Guide confident, though blind. 



Little for this Fitz-Eustace cared. 
But, patient, waited till he heard. 
At distance, prick'd to utmost speed, 
The foot-tramp of a flying steed, 

Come town-ward rushmg on ; 
First, dead, as if on turf it trode. 
Then, clattering on the village road, — 
In other pace than forth he yode,* 

Return'd Lord Marmion. 
Down hastily he sprung from sella. 
And, in his haste, .wellnigh he fell ; 
To the squire's hand the rein he tlirew, 
.\nd spoke no word as he withdrew : 
But yet ;he moonlight did betray. 
The falcon-crest was soil'd with clay ; 
A.nd plainly might Fitz-Eustace see, 
By stains upon the charger's knee. 
And his left side, that on the moor ' 
He had not kept his footing sure. 
Long musmg on these wondrous signs, 
.\t length to rest the squire reclines, 
Broken and short ; for still, between. 
Would dreams of terror mtervene : 
Eustace did ne'er so blithely mark 
The first notes of the morning lark. 



* Yode, used by old poets for went. 



INTRODUCTION TO CANTO 
FOURTH. 

TO JAMES SKENE, ESQ.t 

Ashcsticl, F.ttrick Forest. 
An ancient IMinstrel sagely said, 
" Where is the life whicli late we led? " 
That motley clown in Arden wood, 
Whom humorous Jacques with envy 

vievv'd. 
Not even that clown could amplify. 
On this trite text, so long as 1. 
Eleven years we now may tell. 
Since we have known each other well ; 
Since, riding side by side, our hand 
First drew the voluntary brand. 
And sure, through many a varied scene, 
Unkindness never came betv^feen. 
Away these winged years have flown, 
To join the mass of ages gone ; 
And though deep mark'd, like all below. 
With chequer'd shades of joy and woe ; 
Though thou o'er realms and seas hast 

ranged, 
Mark'd cities lost, and empires changed, 
While here, at home, my narrower ken 
Somewhat of manners saw, and men ; 
Though varying wishes, hopes, and fears, 
Fever'd the progress of these years, 
Yet now, days, weeks, and months, but 

seem 
The recollection of a dream, 
So still we glide down to the sea 
Of fathomless eternity. 

Even now it scarcely seems a day, 
Since first I tuned this idle lay; 
A task so often thrown aside. 
When leisure graver cares denied. 
That now, November's dreary gale, 
Whose voice inspired my opening tale, 
That same November gale once more 
Whirls the dry leaves on Yarrow shore. 
Their vex'd boughs streaming to the sky. 
Once more our naked birches sigh. 
And Blackhouse heights, and Ettrick Pen. 
Have donn'd their wintry shrouds again : 
And mountain dark, and flooded mead. 
Bid us forsake the banks of Tweed. 
Earlier than wont along the sky, 
Mix'd with the rack, the snow mists fly ; 
The shepherd, who in summer sun, 
Had something of our envy won. 



t James Skene, Esq., of Rubislaw, Aber- 
deenshire. 



- 1-4^ 




72 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



As thou wth pencil, I with pen, 

The features traced of hill and gien ; — 

He who, outstretch'd the live-long day, 

At ease among the heath-flowers lay, 

View'd the liglit clouds with vacant look, 

Or slumber'd o'er his tatter'd book, 

Or id'y busied him to guide 

His angle o'er the lessen'd tide ; — 

At midnight now, the snowy plain 

Finds sterner labor for the swain. 

When red hath set the beamless sun. 
Through heavy vapors dark and dun ; 
When the tired ploughman, dry and warm. 
Hears, half asleep, the rising storm 
Hurling the hail, and sleeted rain, 
Against the casement's tinkling pane ; 
The sounds that drive wild deer, and fox, 
To shelter in the brake and rocks, 
Are warniu'^s which the shepherd ask 
To dismal and to dangerous task- 
Oft he looks forth, and hopes, in vain, 
The blast may sink in mellowing rain; 
Till, dark above, and white below, 
Decided drives the flaky snow. 
And forth the hardy swain must go. 
Long, with dejected look and whine. 
To leave his hearth his dogs repine ; 
Whistling and cheering them to aid. 
Around his back he wreathes the plaid : 
His flock he gathers, and he guides, 
To open downs, and mountain sides. 
Where, fiercest though the tempest blow, 
Least deeply lies the drift below. 
The blast, that whistles o'er the fells, 
Stiffens his locks to icicles ; 
Oft he looks back, while streaming far, 
His cottage window seems a star, — 
Loses its feeble gleam, — and then 
Turns patient to the blast again. 
And, facing to the tempest's sweep, 
Drives through the gloom his lagging sheep. 
If fails his heart, if his limbs fail, 
Benumbing death is in the gale : 
His paths, his landmarks, ail unknown 
Close to the hut, no more his own, 
Close to the aid he sought in vain, 
The morn may find the stiffen'd swain :•♦' 
The widow sees, at dawning pale, 
His orphans raise their feeble wail ; 
And, close beside him, in the snov/. 
Poor Yarrow, partner of their woe, 
Couches upon his master's breast. 
And licks his cheek to break his rest. 

Who envies now the shepherd's lot. 
His healthy fare, his rural cot, 



His summer couch by greenwood tree. 
His rustic kirn's * loud revelry. 
His native hill-notes, tuned on high. 
To Marion of the blithesome eye; 
His crook, his scrip, his oaten reed, 
And all Arcadia's golden creed ? 

Changes not so with us, my Skene, 
Of human life the varying ?cene ,? 
Our j'outhful summer oft we see 
Dance by on wings of game and glee. 
While the dark storm reserves its rage. 
Against the winter of our age : 
As he, the ancient Chief of Troy, 
His manhood spent in peace and joy ; 
But Grecian fires, and loud alarms, 
Call'd ancient Priam forth to arms. 
Then happy tliose, since eacli must drain 
His share of pleasure, share of pain, — 
Then happy those, beloved of Heaven, 
To whom the mingled cup is given ; 
Whose lenient sorrows find relief. 
Whose joys are chasten'd by their grief. 
And such a lot, my Skene, was thine, 
When thou of late, wert doom'd 1 

twine, — 
Just when thy bridal hour was by,— 
The cypress with the myrtle tie. 
Just on thy bride her Sire had smiled. 
And bless'd the union of his child, 
When love must change its joyous cheer 
And wipe affection's filial tear. 
Nor did the actions next his end, 
Speak more the father than the friend. 
Scarce had lamented Forbes ^- paid 
The tribute to his Minstrel's shade; 
The tale of friendship scarce was told, 
Ere the narrator's heart was cold — 
Far may we search before we find 
A heart so manly and so kind ' 
But not around his honor'd urn, 
Shall friends alone and kindred mourn ; 
The thousand eyes his care had dried, 
Pour at his name a bitter tide ; 
And frequent falls the grateful dew. 
For benefits the world ne'er knew. 
If mortal charity dare claim 
The Almighty's attributed name. 
Inscribe above his mouldering clay, 
" The widow's shield, the orphan's stay.*' 
Nor, though it wake thy sorrow, deem 
My verse intrudes on this sad theme ; 
For sacred was the pen that wrote, 
" Thy father's friend forget thou not : " 



* Scottish harvest-home. 







MARMION. 



73 



And grateful title may I plead, 
For many a kindly word and deed, 
To bring my tribute to his grave ; — 
'Tis little— ^ but 'tis all I have. 

To thee, perchance, this rambling strain 
Recalls our summer walks again ; 
When, doing nought, — and, to speak true, 
Not anxious to find aught to do,-. 
The wild unbounded hills we ranged, 
While oft our talk its topic changed, 
And, desultory as our way, 
Ranged, unconfined, from grave to gay. 
Even when it flagg'd, as oft will chance, 
No effort made to break its trance, 
We could right pleasantly pursue 
Our sports in social silence too ; 
Thou bravely laboring to portray 
The blighted oak's fantastic spray ; 
I spelling o'er, with much delight. 
The legend of that antique knight, 
Tirante by name, yclep'd the White. 
At either's feet a trusty squire, 
Pandour and Camp,* with eyes of fire, 
Jealous, each other's motions view'd. 
And scarce suppress'd their ancient feud. 
The laverock t whistled from the cloud ; 
The stream was lively, but not loud ; 
From the whitethorn the May-flower shed 
Its dewy fragrance round our head; 
Not Ariel lived more merrily 
Under the blossom'd bough, than we. 

And blithesome nights, too, have been 

ours. 
When Winter stript the summer's bowers. 
Careless we heard, what now 1 hear, 
The wild blast sighing deep and drear. 
When fires were bright, and lamps beam'd 

gay. 
And ladies tuned the lovely lay ; 
And he was held a laggard soul, 
Who shunn'd to quaff the sparkling bowl. 
Then he, whose absence we deplore, % 
Who breathes the gales of Devon's shore, 
The longer miss'd, bewail'd the more ; 

And thou, and I, and dear loved R ,§ 

And one whose name I may not say, — 

For not mimosa's tender tree 

Shrinks sooner from the touch than he, — 

In merry chorus well combined, 

With laughter drown'd the whistling wind. 



Mirth was within ; and Care without 
Might gnaw her nails to hear our shout. 
Not but amid the buxom scene 
Some grave discourse might intervene — 
Of the good horse that bore him best. 
His shoulder, hoof, and arching crest: 
For, like mad Tom's,|j our chiefest care. 
Was horse to ride, and weapon wear. 
Such nights we've had ; and, though the 

game 
Of manhood be more sober tame. 
And though the field-day, or the drill, 
Seem less important now — yet still 
Such may we hope to share again. 
The sprightly thought inspires my strain ! 
And mark, how, like a horseman true, 
Lord Mai-mion's march I thus renew- 



* A fiivorite bull-terrier of Sir Walter's. 

\ Lai'erock, the lark. 

\ Colin Mackenzie, of Portmore. 

i Sir William Rae, Bart., of St. Catharine's. 



CANTO FOURTH. 



THE CAMP. 



Eustace, I said, did blithely mark 
The first notes of the merry lark. 
The lark sang shrill, the cock he crew, 
And loudly Marmion's bugles blew. 
And with their light and lively call. 
Brought groom and yeoman to the stall. 
Whistling they came, and free of heart, 

But soon their mood was changed ; 
Complaint was heard on every part, 

Of something disarranged. 
Some clamor'd loud for armor lost ; 
Some brawl'd and wrangled with the host ; 
" By Becket's bones," cried one, " I fear, 
That some false Scot has stolen my 

spear ! " — 
Young Blount, Lord Marmion's second 

squire. 
Found his steed wet with sweat and mire; 
Although the rated horse-boy sware, 
Last night he dressed him sleek and fair. 
While chafed the impatient squire like 

thunder, 
Old Hubert shouts, in fear and wonder, — 
" Help, gentle Blount ! help, comrades all " 
Bevis lies dying in his stall : 
To Marmio'n who the plight dare tell. 
Of the good steed he loves so well ? " 
Gaping for fear and ruth, they saw 
The charger panting on his straw ; 



II Common name for an idiot; assumed by 
Edgar in King Lear. 




'W 



74 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Till one, who would seem wisest, cried — 
" What else but evil could betide, 
With that cursed Palmer for our guide ? 
Better we had through mire and bush 
Been lantern-led by Friar Rush." ^^ 
'1. 
Fitz-Eustace, who tlie cause but guess'd, 

Nor wholly understood, 
His comrades' clamorous plaints sup- 
press'd ; 
He knew Lord Marmion's mood. 
Him, ere he issued forth, he sought. 
And found deep plunged in gloomy 
thought. 
And did his tale display 
Simply as if he knew of nought 
To cause such disarray. 
Lord Marmion gave attention cold. 
Nor marvell'd at the wonders told, — 
Pass'd them as accidents of course. 
And bade his clarions sound to horse. 



Young Henry Blount, meanwhile, the cost 
Had reckon'd with their Scottish host ; 
And, as the charge he cast and paid, 
" 111 thou deserv'st thy hire,'' he said ; 
'■' Dost see, thou knave, my horse's plight ? 
Fairies have ridden him all the night, 

And left him in a foam ! 
I trust that soon a conjuring band. 
With English cross and blazing brand. 
Shall drive the devils from this land. 

To their infernal home: 
For in this haunted den, I trow. 
All night they trample to and fro." 
The laughing host look'd on tne hire,^ 
" Gramercy, gentle southern squire. 
And if thou comest among tlie rest. 
With Scottish broadsword to be blest. 
Sharp be the brand, and sure the blow, 
And short the pang to undergo.'' 
Here stay'd their talk,- — for Marmion 
Gave now the signal to set on. 
The Palmer showing forth the way. 
They journey'd all the morning day, 

IV. 

The green-sward way was smooth and 

good, 
Through Humbie's and through Saltoun's 

wood ; 
A forest glade, which, varying still, 
Here gave a view of dale and hill, 
There narrower closed, till, over-head, 
A vaulted screen the branches made. 
" A pleasant path," Fitz-Eustace said ; 



" Such as where errant-knights might see 
Adventures of high chivalry ; 
Might meet some damsel flying fast. 
With hair unbound and looks aghast ; 
And smooth and level course were here, 
In her defence to break a spear. 
Here, too, are twilight nooks and dells ; 
And oft, in such, the story tells. 
The damsel kind, from danger freed. 
Did grateful pay her champion's meed." 
He spoke to cheer Lord Marmion's mind ; 
Perchance to show his lore design'd; 

For Eustace much had pored 
Upon a huge romantic tome. 
In the hall window of his home. 
Imprinted at the antique dome 

Of Caxton, or De Worde.* 
Therefore he spoke, — but spoke in vain, 
For Marmion answer'd nought again. 



Now sudden, distant trumpets shrill. 
In notes prolong'd by wood and hill, 

Were heard to echo far ; 
Each ready archer grasp'd his bow. 
But by the flourish soon they know. 

They breathed no point of war. 
Yet cautious, as in foeman's land. 
Lord Marmion's order speeds the band. 

Some opener ground to gain ; 
And scarce a furlong had they rode, 
When thinner trees, receding, show'd 

A little woodland plain. 
Just in that advantageous glade. 
The halting troop a line had made, 
A'i forth from the opposing shade 

Issued a gallant train. 



First came the trumpets at whose clang 

So late the forest echoes rang ; 

On prancing steeds they forward press'd. 

With scarlet mantle, azure vest ; 

Each at his trump a banner wore. 

Which Scotland's royal scutcheon bore : 

Heralds and pursuivants, by name 

Bute, Islay, Marchmount, Rothsay, came, 

In painted tabards, proudly showing 

Gules, Argent, Or, and Azure glowing, 

Attendant on a King-at-arms, 
Whose hand the armorial truncheon held 
That feudal strife had often quell'd, 

When wildest its alarms. 



* William Caxton was the earliest English 
printer; born in Kent, a.d. 1412 ; Wynken de 
Worde was his successor. 





d 



M ARM ION. 



75 



He was a man of middle age ; 
In aspect manly, grave, and sage, 

As on King's errand come ; 
But in the glances of his eye, 
A penetrating, keen, and sly 

Expression found its home ; 
The flash of that satiric rage. 
Which, bursting on the early stage, 
Branded the vices of the age, 

And broke the keys of Rome. 
On milk-white palfrey forth he paced ; 
His cap of maintenance was graced 

With the proud heron-plume. 
From his steed's shoulder, loin, and 
breast, 
Silk housings swept the ground, 
With Scotland's arms, device, and crest, 

Embroider'd round and round. 
The double tressure might you see, 

First by Achaius borne, 
The thistle and the fleur-de-lis, 
And gallant unicorn. 
So bright the King's armorial coat. 
That scarce the dazzled eye could note, 
In living colors, blazon'd brave. 
The Lion, which his title gave ; 
A train which well beseem'd his state, 
But all unarm' d, around him wait. 
Still is thy name in high account. 
And still thy verse has charms. 
Sir David Lindesay of the Mount, 
Lord Lion King-at-arms ! ^ 



Down from his horse did Marmion spring. 

Soon he saw the Lion-King ; 

For well the stately Baron knew 

To him such courtesy was due, 

Whom royal James himself had crown'd. 

And on his temples placed the round 

Of Scotland's ancient diadem : 
And wet his brow with hallow' d wine. 
And on his finger given to shine 

The emblematic gem. 
Their mutual greetings duly made. 
The Lion thus his message said ; — 
" Though Scotland's King hath deeply 

swore 
Ne'er to knit faith with Henry more 
And strictly hath forbid resort 
From England to his royal court ; 
Yet, for he knows Lord Marmion's name. 
And honors much his warlike fame. 
My liege hath deem'd it shame, and lack 
Of courtesy, to turn him back ; 



And, by his order, I, your guide, 
Must lodging fit and fair provide, 
Till finds King James meet time to see 
The flower of English chivalry." 



Though inly chafed at this delay. 
Lord Marmion bears it as he may, 
The Palmer, his mysterious guide, 
Beholding thus his place supplied. 

Sought to take leave in vain ; 
Strict was the Lion King's command, 
That none, who rode in Marmion's band, 

Should sever from the train : 
" England has here enow of spies 
In Lady Heron's witching eyes ; "_ 
To Marchmount thus, apart, he said. 
But fair pretext to Marmion made. 
The right-hand path they now decline, 
And trace against the stream the Tyne. 



At length up that wild dale they wind. 

Where Crichtoun Castle ■♦^ crowns the 
bank ; 
For there the Lion's care assign'd 

A lodging meet for Marmion's rank. 
That Castle rises on the steep 

Of the green vale of Tyne : 
And far beneath, where slow they creep, 
From pool to eddy, dark and deep. 
Where alders moist, and willows weep, 

You hear her streams repine. 
The towers in different ages rose ; 
Their various architecture shows 

The builders' various hands ; 
A mighty mass, that could oppose. 
When deadliest hatred fired its foes, 

The vengeful Douglas bands. 



Crichtoun ! though now thy miry court 
But pens the lazy steer and sheep. 
Thy turrets rude, and totter'd Keep, 

Have been the minstrel's loved resort. 

Oft have I traced, within thy fort. 

Of mouldering shields the mystic sense, 
Scutcheons of honor, or pretence. 

Quarter' d in old armorial sort, 

~ Remains of rude magnificence. 

Nor wholly yet had time defaced 
Thy lordly gallery fair ; 

Nor yet the stony cord unbraced. 

Whose twisted knots, with roses laced. 
Adorn thy ruin'd stair; 

Still rises unimpair'd below, 

The court-yard's graceful portico : 



^^Q^ 






76 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Above its cornice, row and row 
Of fair hewn facets richly show 
Their pointed diamond form, 
Though there but liouseless cattle go, 

To shield them from the storm. 
And, shuddering, still may we explore, 

Where oft whilom were captives pent, 
The darlvness of thy Massy More ; 
Or, from thy grass-grown battlement. 
May trace, in undulating line. 
The sluggish mazes of the Tyne. 



Another aspect Crichtoun show'd, 

As througli its portals Marmion rode ; 

But yet 'twas melancholy state 

Received him at the outer gate ; 

For none were in the Castle then, 

But women, boys, or aged men. 

With eyes scarce dried, the sorrowing dame. 

To welcome noble Marmion, came ; 

Her son, a stripling twelve years old, 

Proffer'd the Baron's rein to hold ; 

For each man that could draw a sword 

Had march'd that morning with their lord. 

Earl Adam Hepburn,'*^ he who died 

On Flodden, by his sovereign's side. 

Long may his Lady look in vain ! 

She ne'er shall see his gallant train 

Come sweeping bacli through Crichtoun- 

Dean. 
'Twas a brave race, before the name 
Of hated Bothv/ell stain'd their fame. 



And here two days did Marmion rest. 

With every rite that honor claims, 
Attended as the King's own guest : — 
Such the command of Royal James, 
Who marshall'd then his land's array, 
Upon the Borough-moor that lay. 
Perchance he would not foeman's eye 
Upon his gathering host should pry. 
Till full prepared was every band 
To march agamst the English land. 
Here while they dwelt, did Lindesay's wit 
Oft cheer the Baron's moodier fit ; 
And, in his turn, he knew to prize 
Lord Marmion's powerful mind, and wise,- 
Train'd in the lore of Rome and Greece, 
And policies of war and peace. 



It chanced, as fell the second night, 
That on the battlements they walk'd, 

And, by the slowly fading light, 
Of varying topics talk'd ; 



And, unaware, the Herald-bard 

Said, Marmion might his toil have spared, 

In travelling so far ; 
For that a messenger from heaven 
In vain to James had counsel given 

Against the English war ; '•'' 
And, closer question'd, thus he told 
A tale, which chronicles of old 
In Scottish story have enroll'd: — 



SIR DAVID lindesay's TALE 

" Of all the palaces so fair. 

Built for the royal dwelling. 
In Scotland, far beyond compare 

Linlithgow is excelling ; 
And in its park in jovial June, 
How sweet the merry linnet's tune. 

How blithe the blackbird's lay ! 
The wild-buckbells •'^ from ferny brake, 
The coot dives merry on the lake. 
The saddest heart might pleasure take 

To see all nature gay. 
But June is to our sovereign dear 
The heaviest month in all the year : 
Too well his cause of grief you know, 
June saw his father's overthrow. -i? 
Woe to the traitors, who could bring 
The princely boy against his King ! 
Still in his conscience burns the sting. 
In offices as strict as Lent, 
King James's June is ever spent. 



" When last this ruthful month was come, 
And in Linlithgow's holy dome 

The King, as wont, was praying ; 
While, for his royal father's soul, 
The chanters sung, the bells did toll, 

The Bishop mass was saying — 
For now the year brought round again 
The day the luckless king was slain — 
In Katharine's aisle the Monarcli knelt, 
With sackcloth-shirt, and iron belt. 

And eyes with sorrow streaming; 
Around him in their stalls of state, 
The Thistle's Knight-Companions sate. 

Their banners o'er them beaming. 
I too was there, and, sooth to tell, 
Bedeafen'd with the jangling knell, 
Was watching where the sunbeams fell. 

Through the stain'd casement gleaming ; 
But, while I mark'd what next befell, 

It seem'd as I were dreaming. 
Stepp'd from the crowd a ghostiv wight, 
In azure gown, with cincture white,- 







MARMION. 



n 



His forehead bald, his head was bare, 
Down hung at length his yellow hair. — 
Now, mock me not, when, good my Lord, 
I pledge to you my knightly word. 
That, when I saw his placid grace, 
His simple majesty of face, 
His solemn bearing, and his pace 

So stately gliding on, — 
Seem'd to me ne'er did limner paint 
So just an image cf the Saint, 
Who propp'd the Virgin in her faint.— 

The loved Apostle John 1 



" Hestepp'd before the Monarch's chair, 
And stood with rustic plainness there. 

And little reverence made ; 
Nor head, nor body, bow'd nor bent, 
But on the desk his arm he leant, 

And words like these he said. 
In a low voice, but never tone, 
So thrill'd through vein, and nerve and 

bone : — 
• My mother sent me from afar. 
Sir King, to warn thee not to war, — 

Woe waits on thine array ; 
It W(ir thou wilt, of woman fair, 
Her witching wiles and wanton snare, 
James Stuart, doubly warn'd, beware : 

God keep thee as he may ! ' 

The wondering Monarcli seem'd to seek 

For answer, and found none, 
And when he raised his head to speak, 
The monitor was gone. 
The Marshal and myself had cast 
To stop him as he outward pass'd ; 
But, lighter than the whirlwind's blast, 

He vanish'd from our eyes. 
Like sunbeam on the billow cast, 

That glances but, and dies." 



While Llndesay told his marvel strange. 

The twilight was so pale. 
He mark'd not Marmion's color change, 

While listening to the tale ; 
But, after a suspended pause. 
The Baron spoke : — " Of Nature's laws 

So strong I held the force, 
That never superhuman cause 
Could e'er control their course. 
.\nd, three days since, had judged your aim 
Was but to make your guest your game. 
But I have seen, since past the Tweed, 
What much has changed my skeptic creed, 
And made me credit aught. " — He staid, 
And seem'd to wish his words unsaid: 



But, by that strong eniction press'd, 
Which prompts us to unload oui breast, 

Even when discovery's pain. 
To Lindesay did at length unfold 
The tale his village host had told, 

At Gifford, to his train. 
Nought of tlie Palmer says he there, 
And nought of Constance, or of Clare; 
The thoughts, which broke his sleep, h( 

seems 
To mention but as feverish dreams. 



" In rain," said he, " to rest I spread 
My burning limbs, and couch'd my head; 

Fantastic thoughts return'd ; 
And, by the:r wild dominion led, 

My heart within me burn'd. 
So sore was the delirious goad, 
I took my steed, and forth I rode. 
And, as the moon shone bright and cold, 
Soon reach'd the camp upon the wold. 
The southern entrance I pass'd through, 
And halted, and my bugle blew. 
Methought an answer met my ear, — 
Yet was the blast so low and drear, 
So hollow; and so faintly blown. 
It might be echo of my own. 

XX. 

" Thus judging, for a little space 
I listen'd, ere I left the place ; 

But scarce could trust my eyes. 
Nor yet can think they served me true, 
When sudden in the ring I view. 
In form distinct of shape and hue, 

A mounted champion rise. — 
I've fought, Lord-Lion, many a day, 
In single fight, and mix'd affray, 
And ever, I myself may say. 

Have borne me as a knight • 
But when tliis unexpected foe 
Seem'd starting from the gulf below, — 
I care not though the truth I show, — 

I trembled with affright; 
And as I placed in rest my spear. 
My hand so shook for ve'-y fear, 

I scarce could couch it right, 
xxi. 
" Why need my tongue the issue teli ;• 
We ran our course, — - my charger fell : — 
What could he 'gainst the shock of heli.'-- 

I roll'd upon the plain. 
High o'er my head, with threatening hand. 
The spectre shook his native brand, — 

Yet did the worst remain : 
My dazzled eyes I upward cast. — 
Not opening hell itself could blast 






78 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Their sight, like what I saw ! 
Full on his face the moonbeam strooli, — 
A face could never be mistook ! 
I knew the stern vindictive look, 

And held my breath for awe. 
I saw the face of one who, fled 
To foreign cHmes, has long been dead,— 

I well believe the last : 
For ne'er, from vizor raised, did stare 
A human warrior, with a glare. 

So grimly and so ghast. 
Thrice o'er my head he shook the blade ;■ 
But when to good Saint George I pray'd, 
(The first time e'er I ask'd his aid,) 

He plunged it in the sheath ; 
And, on his courser mounting light, 
H,e seem'd to vanish from my sight : 
The moonbeam dropp'd, and deepest night 

Sunk down upon the heath. — 

'Tvvere long to tell what cause I have 
To know his face, that met me there, 

Call'd by his hatred from the grave, 
To cumber upper air ; 
Dead or alive, good cause had he 
To be my mortal enemy."' 



Marvell'd Sir David of the Mount ; 
Then, learn' d in story, 'gan recount 

Such chance had happ'd of old, 
When once, near Norham, there did fight 
A spectre fell of fiendish might, 
In likeness of a Scottish kniglit, 

With Brian Bulmer bold. 
And train'd him nigh to disallow 
The aid of his baptismal vow. 
'' And such a phantom, too, 'tis said. 
With Highland broadsword, targe, and 
plaid. 

And fingers, red with gore, 
Is seen in Rothiemurcus glade, 
Or where the sable pine-trees shade 
Dark Tomantoul, and Auchnaslaid, 

Dromouchty, or Glenmore. 
And yet, whate'er sucli legends say, 
Of warlike demon, ghost, or fay. 

On mountain, moor, or plain, 
Spotless in faith, in bosom bold, 
True son of chivalry should hold 

These midnight terrors vain ; 
For seldom have such spirits pov/er 
To harm, save in the evil hour. 
When guilt we meditate within, 
Or harlDor unrepented sin " — 
Lord Maimion turn'd him half aside. 
And twice to clear his voice he tried. 

Then press'd Sir David's hand, — 



But nought, at length, in answer said ; 
And here their farther converse staid, 

Each ordering tliat his band 
Should bowne them with the rising day, 
To Scotland's camp to take their way. — 

Such was the King's command. 



Early they took Dun-Edin's road. 
And I could trace each step they trode. 
Hill, brook, nor dell, nor rock, nor stone, 
Lies on the path to me unknown. 
Much might it boast of storied lore; 
But, passing such digression o'er, 
Suffice it that the route was laid 
Across the furzy hills of Braid. 
They pass'd the glen and scanty rill, 
And climb'd the opposing bank, until 
They gain'd the top of Blackford Hill. 

XXIV. 

Blackford ! on whose uncultured breast, 

Among the broom, and thorn, and 
whin, 
A truant-boy, I sought the nest, 
Or listed, as I lay at rest. 

While rose, on breezes thin. 
The murmur of the city crowd. 
And, from his steeple jangling loud, 

Saint Giles's mingling din. 
Now, from the summit to the plain, 
Waves all the hill vvitVi yellow grain ; 

And o'er the landscape as I look. 
Nought do I see unchanged remain, 

Save the rude cliffs and chiming brook, 
To me they make a heavy moan, 
Ot early friendships past and gone. 

XXV. 

But different far the change has been, 

•Since Marmion, from the crown 
Of Blackford, saw that martial scene 

Upon tlie bent so brown: 
Thousand pavilions, white as snow. 
Spread all the Borough-moor5° below. 

Upland, and dale, and down : — 
A thousand did I say .'' 1 ween. 
Thousands on thousands there were seen. 
That chequer'd all the heath between 

The streamlet and the town ; 
In crossing ranks extending far. 
Forming a camp irregular ; 
Oft giving way, where still there stood 
Some relics of the old oak wood, 
Tha*' darkly huge did intervene, 
.•\nd tamed the glaring white vyith green' 
In these extended lines there lay 
A martial kingdom's vast arra^'. 




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MARMION. 79 


XL. 


- 


XXVI. 


Until within him burn'd his heart, 




For from Hebudes, dark with rain, 


And lightning from his eye did part 






J (j To eastern Lodon's fertile plain, 


As on the battle-day ; J 




And from the Southern Redswire idge, 


Such glance did falcon never dart, I 






To farthest Rosse's rocky ledge ; 


When stooping on his prey. 






From west to east, from south to north, 


" Oh ! well, Lord-Lion, hast thou said, 






Scotland sent all her warriors forth. 


Thy King from warfare to dissuade 






Marmion might hear the mingled hum 


Were but a vain essay : 






Of myriads up the mountain come ; 


For, by St. George, were that host mine. 






The horses' tramp, and tingling clank, 


Not power infernal nor divine. 






Where chiefs review'd their vassal rank, 


Should once to peace my soul incline, 






And charger's shril'ing neigh ; 


Till I had dimm'd their armor's shine 






And see the shifting lines advance, 


In glorious battle-fray ! " 






While frequent flasli'd, from shield and 


Answer'd the Bard, of milder mood : 






lance, 


" Fair is the sight, — and yet 'twere good, 






The sun's reflected ray. 


That kings wouid think withal. 






XXVII. 


When peace and wealth their land hae 
bless'd. 






Thin curling in the morning air. 


'Tis better to sit still at rest. 






The wreaths of failing smoke declare 


Than rise, perchance to fall." 






To embers now the brands decay'd. 








Where the niglit-watch their fires had made. 


XXX. 






They saw, slow rolling on the plain. 


Still on the spot Lord Marmion stay'd, 






Full many a baggage-cart and wain. 


For fairer scene he ne'er survey'd. 






And dire artillery's clumsy car, 


When sated with the martial show 






By sluggish oxen tugg'd to w^ar ; 


That peopled all the plain below. 






And there were Borthwick's Sisters Seven,* 


The wandering eye could o'er it go 






And culverins which France had given. 


And mark the distant city glow 






Ill-omen'd gift ! the guns remain 


With gloomy splendor red ; 






The conqueror's spoil on Flodden plain. 


For on the smoke-wreaths, huge and slow. 






XXVIII. 


That round her sable turrets flow. 
The morning beams, weie shed. 






Nor mark'd they less, where in the air 


And tinged them with a lustre proud, 






A thousand streamers flaunted fair ; 


Like that which streaks a thunder-cloud. 






Various in shape, device, and hue. 


Such dusky grandeur clothed the heiglit, 






Green, sanguine, purple, red, and blue. 


Where the huge Castle holds its state. 






Broad, narrow, swallow-tail'd, and square. 


And all the steep slope down. 






Scroll, pennon, pensil, bandrol, there 


Whose ridgy back heaves to the sky. 






O'er the pavilions flew. 


Piled deep and massy, close and highj 






Highest and midmost, was descried 


Mine own romantic town ! 






The royal banner floating wide ; 


But northward far, with purer blaze, 






The staff, a pine-tree, strong and straight. 


On Ochil mountains fell the rays, 






Pitch'd deeply in a massive stone. 


And as each heathy top they kiss'd, 






Which still in memory is shown, 


It gleam'd a purple amethyst. 






Yet bent beneath the standard's weight 


Yonder the shores of Fife you saw ; 






Whene'er the western wind unroll'd, 


Here Preston-Bay and Berwick-Law 






With toil, the huge and cumbrous fold. 


And, broad between them roll'd. 






And gave to view the dazzling field. 


The gallant Frith the eye might note 






Where, in proud Scotland's royal shield. 


Whose islands on its bosom float. 






The ruddy lion ramp'd in gold.^' 


Like emeralds chased in gold. 






XXIX. 


Fitz-Eustace' heart felt closely pent 






Lord Marmion view'd the landscape 
1 f* bright, — 


As if to give his rapture vent, 
The spur he to his charger lent, 


•> 




He view'd it with a chief's delisht. — 


And raised his bridle hand. 










And, making demi-volte in air, 

Cried, " Where's the coward that would not 




* Seven culverins, so called from him who 




cast them 


dare 






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So 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



To fight for such a land ? " 
The Lindesay smiled his joy to see ; 
Nor Mansion's frown repressed his glee. 



Thus while they look'd, a flourish proud, 
Where mingled trump and clarion IoirI, 

And fife, and kettle-drum, 
And sackbut deep, and psaltery, 
And war-pipe with discordant cry, 
And cymbal clattering to the sky, 
Making wild music bold and higli. 

Did up the mountain come; 
The whilst the bells, with distant chime, 
Merrily told the hour of prime, 
And thus the Lindesay spoke : 
" Thus clamor still the war-notes when 
The king to mass his way has ta'en, 
Or to St. Katharine's of Sienne, 

Or Chapel of Saint Kocque. 
To you they speak of martial fame ; 
But me remind of peaceful game. 

When blither was their cheer, 
Thrilling in Falkland-woods the air. 
In signal none liis steed should spare. 
But strive which foremost might repair 

To the downfall of the deer. 



" Nor less," he said, — " when looking 

forth, 
I view yon Empress of the North 

Sit on her hilly throne; 
Her palace's imperial bowers. 
Her castle, proof to hostile powers, 
Her stately halls and holy towers — 

Nor less," he said, " I moan, 
To think what woe mischance may bring, 
And how these merry bells may ring 
Ihe death-dirge of our gallant king; 

Or with the 'larum call 
The burghers forth to watch and ward, 
'Gainst southern sack and fires to guard 

Dun-Edin's Icaguer'd wall. — 
But not for my presaging tliought, 
Dream conquest sure, or cheaply bought ! 

Lord ISLirmion, I say nay : 
God is the guider of the field. 
He breaks the champion's spear and 
shield, — 

But thou tJiyself shalt say, 
\\'hen joins yon host in deadly stowre, 
That England's dames must weep in bower. 

Her monks the death-mass sing; 
For never saw'st thou such a power 

Led on by such a King." — 



And now, down winding to the plain, 
The barriers of the camp they gain, 

And there they made a stay. — 
There stays the Minstrel till lie fling 
His hand o'er every Border string. 
And fit his harp the pomp to sing, 
Of Scotland's ancient Court and King, 

In the succeeding lav. 



INTRODUCTION TO CANTO 
FIFTH. 

TO GEORGE ELLIS, ESQ.* 

Edittbnrc^h. 
When dark December glooms the day. 
And takes our autumn joys away ; 
When short and scant the sunbeam throwSi 
Upon t're weary waste of snows, 
A cold and profitless regard. 
Like patron on a needy bard ; 
When silvan occupation's done. 
And o'er the chimney rests the gun. 
And hang, in idle trophy, near, 
The game-pouch, fishing-rod, and spear; 
When wiry terrier, rough and grim. 
And greyhoimd, with his length of limb, 
And pointer, now employ'd no more, 
Cumber our parlor's narrow floor; 
When in his stall the impatient steed 
Is long condemned to rest and feed ; 
W'hen from our snow-encircled home, 
Scarce cares the hardiest step to roam, 
Since path is none, save that to bring 
The needful water from the spring ; 
When wrinkled news-page, thrice conn'd 

o'er. 
Beguiles the dreary hour no more, 
.'\nd darkling politician, cross'd. 
Inveighs against the lingering post. 
And answering housewife sore complains 
Of carriers' snow-impeded wains ; 
When such the country cheer. 1 come, 
Well pleased, to seek our city home: 
For converse, and for books, to change 
The Forest's melancholy range. 
And welcome, with renew'd delight. 
The busy day and social nighi. 

Not here need my desponding rhyme 
Lament the ravages of tune. 
As erst by Newark's riven towers. 
And Ettrick stripp'd of forest bowers. 



* The lenvned editor of the " Specimens of 
Ancient Enirlish Romance." 






MAKMION. 



8i 



True, — Caledonia's Queen is changed,*^ 
Since on her dusky summit ranged, 
Within its steepy limits pent, 
By bulwark, line, and battlement, 
And flanking towers, and laky flood, 
Guarded and garrison'd she stood, 
Denying entrance or resort. 
Save at each tall embattled port ; 
Above whose arcli, suspended, hung 
Portcullis spiked with iron prong. 
That long is gone, — but not so long 
Since, early closed, and opening late, 
jealous revolved the studded gate, 
Whose task, from eve to morning tide, 
A wicket churlishly supplied. 
Stern, then, and steel-girt was thy brow, 
Dun-Edin ! O, how alter'd now. 
When safe amid thy mountain court 
Thou sit'st, like Empress at her sport. 
And liberal, unconfined, and free. 
Flinging tiiy white arms to the sea. 
For thy dark cloud, with umber'd lower. 
That hung o'er cliff, and lake, and tower, 
Thou gleam'st against the western ray 
Ten thousand lines of brighter day. 

Not she, the Championess of old. 
In Spenser's magic tale enroH'd, 
She, for the charmed spear renown'd, 
•Which forced each knight to kiss the 

ground, — 
Not she more changed, when placed at rest, 
What time she was Malbecco's guest. 
She gave to flow her maiden vest ; 
When from the corslet's grasp relieved. 
Free to the sight her bosom heaved ; 
Sweet was her blue eye's modest smile, 
Erst hidden by the aventayle ; 
And down her shoulders graceful roll'd. 
Her locks profuse, of paly gold. 
They who whilom, in midnight fight. 
Had marvell'd at her matchless might. 
No less her maiden charms approved. 
But looking liked, and liking loved. 
The sight could jealous pangs beguile. 
And charm Malbecco's cares a while: 
And he, the wandering Squire of Dames, 
Forgot his Columbella's claims. 
And passion, erst unknown, could gain 
The breast of blunt Sir Satyrane; 
Nor durst light Paridel advance. 
Bold as he was, a looser glance. 
She charm'd at once, and tamed the heart. 
Incomparable Britomarte ! * 



* The Maiden Knight in Spenser's " Faivy 
Qiieen," book iii, canto 9. 




So thou, fair City ! disarray'd 
Of battled wall, and rampart's aid, 
As stately seem'st, but lovelier far 
Than in that panoply of war. 
Nor deem that from thy fenceless throne 
Strength and security are flown ; 
Still, as of yore. Queen of the North ! 
Still canst thou send thy children forth. 
Ne'er readier at alarm-bell's call 
Thy burgliers rose to man thy wall, 
Than now, in danger, shall be thine, 
Thy dauntless voluntary line; 
For fosse and turret proud to stand. 
Their breasts the bulwarks of the land. 
Thy thousands, trained to martial toil, 
Full red would stain their native soil, 
Ere from thy mural crown there fell 
The slightest knosp or pinnacle. 
And if it come, — as come it may, 
Dun-Edin ! that eventful day, — 
Renown'd for hospitable deed, 
That virtue much with Heaven may plead. 
In patriarchal times whose care 
Descending angels deign'd to share; 
That claim may wrestle blessings down 
On those who fight for The Good Town. 
Destined in every age to be 
Refuge of injured royalty ; 
Since first, when conquering York arose, 
To Henry meek she gave repose,! 
Till late, with wonder, grief, and awe, 
Great Bourbon's relics, sad she saw. 

Truce to these thoughts! — for, as they 
rise. 
How gladly I avert mine eyes, 
Bodings, or true or false, to change, 
For Fiction's fair romantic range, 
Or for tradition's dubious light, 
That hovers 'twixt the day and night: 
Dazzling alternately and dim. 
Her wavering lamp I'd rather trim. 
Knights, squires, and lovely dames to see, 
Creation of my fantasy. 
Than gaze abroad on reeky fen, 
.And make of mists invading men. 
Who loves not more the night of June 
Than dull December's gloomy noon ? 
The moonlight than the fog of frost .'' 
And can we say, which cheats the most ? 

But who shall teach my harp to gam 
A sound of the romantic strain. 



t Henry VI. of England, who souglit 
refuge in Scotland after the fatal battle of 
Towton. " Tlie Meek Usurper," see Gray. 






82 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Whose Anglo-Norman tones vvhilere 

Could win the royal Henry's ear. 

Famed Beauclerc call'd, for that lie loved 

The minstrel * and his lay approved ? 

Who shall these lingering notes redeem, 

Decaying on Oblivion's stream ; 

Such notes as from the Breton tongue 

Marie t translated, Blondel sung ?— 

O 1 born, Time's ravage to repair, 

And make the dying muse thy care ; 

WIio, when his scythe her hoary foe 

Was poising for the final blow, 

The weapon from his hand could wring, 

And break his glass, and shear his wing, 

And bid, reviving in his strain, 

Tiie gentle poet live again ; 

Thou, who canst give to lightest lay 

An unpedantic moral gay, 

Nor less the dullest theme bid flit 

On wings of unexpected wit ; 

In letters as in life approved. 

Example honor'd, and beloved, — 

Dear Ellis ! to the bard impart 

A lesson of thy magic art, 

To win at once the head and heart. — 

At once to charm, instruct, and mend. 

My guide, my pattern, and my friend ! 

Such minstrel lesson to bestow 
Be long thy pleasing task,— but, O ! 
No more by thy example teach, 
— What few can practise, all can preach, — 
With even patience to endure 
Lingering disease, and painful cure, 
And boast affliction's pangs subdued 
By mild and manly fortitude. 
Enough, the lesson has been given'. 
Forbid the repetition, Heaven ! 

Come listen, then ! for thou hast known, 
And loved the Minstrel's varying tone, 
Who. like his Border sires of old. 
Waked a wild measure rude and bold, 
Till Windsor's oaks, and Ascot plain. 
With wonder heard the northern strain. 
Come listen ! bold in thy applause, 
The bard shall scorn pedantic laws ; 
And, as the ancient art could stain 
Achievements on the storied pane, 
Irregularly traced and plann'd. 
But yet so glowing and so grand, — 
So shall he strive, in changeful hue. 
Field, feast, and combat, to renew, 



* Philip de Than. 

^ Marie of _ France, who translated the 
" Lais" of Brittany into French. She resided 
n the Court of Henry III. of England, to 
whom she dedicated her book. 



And loves, and arms, and harpers' glee. 
And all the pomp of chivalry. 



CANTO FIFTH 

THE COURT. 
I. 

The train has left the hills pf Braid, 
The barrier guard have open made 
(So Lindesay bade) the palisade, 

That closed the tented ground; 
Their men the warders backward drew. 
And carried pikes as they rode through, 

Into its ample bound. 
Fast ran the Scottish warriors there. 
Upon the Southern band to stare. 
And envy with their wonder rose, 
To see such well-appointed foes ; 
Such length of shafts, such mighty bows. 
So huge, that many simply thought. 
But for a vaunt such weapons wrought ; 
And little deem'd their force to feel^ 
Through links of mail, and plates of steel, 
When rattling upon Flodden vale, 
The cloth-yard arrows flew like hail. S3 



Nor less did Marmion's skilful view 
Glance every line and squadron through 
And much he marvell'done small land 
Could marshal forth such various band: 

For men-at-arms were here. 
Heavily sheathed in mail and plate, 
Like iron towers for strength and weight, 
On Flemish steeds of bone and height, 

With battle-axe and spear. 
Young knights and squires, a lighter traia 
Practised their chargers on the plain. 
By aid of leg, of hand, and rein. 

Each warlike feat to show. 
To pass, to wheel, the croupe to gain, 
And high curvett, that not in vain 
The sword sway might descend amain 

On foeman's casque below. 
He saw the hardy burghers there 
March arm'd, on foot, with faces bare,'* 

For vizor they wore none. 
Nor waving plume, nor crest of knight ; 
But burnished were their corslets bright, 
Their brigantines, and gorgets light, 

Like very silver shone. 
Long pikes they had for standing fight. 

Two-handed swords they wore. 
And many wielded mace of weight. 

And bucklers bright they bora. 




j£ 



MARMION. 



On foot the yeoman too, but dress'd 
In his steel-jack, a swarthy vest, 

With iron quiltJd well ; 
Each at his back (a slender store) 
His forty days' provision bore, 

As feudal statutes tell. 
His arms were halbert, axe, or spear,'^ 
A crossbow there, a hagbut here, 

A dagger-knife, and brand. 
Sober he seem'd, and sad of cheer, 
As loth to leave his cottage dear, 

And march to foreign strand ; 
Or musing, who would guide his steer, 

To till the fallow land. 
Yet deem not in his thoughtful eye 
Did aught of dastard terror lie ; 

More dreadful far his ire, 
Than theirs, who, scorning danger's name, 
In eager mood to battle came. 
Their valor like light straw on flame, 

A fierce but fading fire. 
IV. 
Not so the Borderer : — bred to war, 
He knew the battle's din afar. 

And joy'd to hear it swell. 
His peaceful day was slothful ease ; 
Nor harp, nor pipe, his ear could please 

Like the loud slogan yell. 
On active steed, with lance and blade, 
The light-arm'd pricker plied his trade, — 

Let nobles fight for fame ; 
Let vassals follow where they lead, 
Burghers to guard their townships bleed. 

But war's the Borderer's game. 
Their gain, their glory, their delight, 
To sleep the day, maraud the night, 

O'er mountain, moss, and moor; 
Joyful to fight they took their way, 
Scarce caring who might win the day. 

Their booty was secure. 
These, as Lord Marmion's train pass'd bv, 
Look'd on at first with careless eye. 
Nor marvell'd aught, well taught 'to know 
The form and force of English bo\v. 
But when they saw the Lord array'd 
In splendid arms and rich brocade. 
Each Borderer to his kinsman said, — 

" Hist, Ringan! seest thou there! 
Canst guess which road they'll homeward 

ride 1 — 
O ! could we but on Border side. 
By Eusedale's glen, or Liddell's tide. 

Beset a prize so fair ! 
That langless Lion, too, their guide. 
Might chance to lose his glistering hide ; 




Brown Maudlin, of that doublet pied, 
Could make a kirtle rare." 



Ne.xt, Marmion mark'd the Celtic race,. 
Of different language, form, and lace, 

A various race of man ; 
lust then the Chiefs their tribes array'd, 
And wild and garish semblance made. 
The chequer'd trews, and belted plaid. 
And varying notes the war-pipes bray'd 

To every varying clan ; 
Wild through their red or sable hair 
Look'd out their eyes with savage stare, 

On Marmion as he pass'd ; 
Their legs above the knee were bare ; 
Their frame was sinewy, short, and spare^ 

And harden'd to the blast ; 
Of taller race, the chiefs they own 
Were by the eagle's plumage known. 
The hunted red deer's undress'd hide 
Their hairy buskins well supplied ; 
The graceful bonnet deck'd their head : 
Back from their shoulders hung the plaid ; 
A broadsword of unwieldy length, 
A dagger proved for edge and strength, 

A studded targe they wore, 
.And quivers, bows, and shafts, — but, O i 
Short was the shaft, and weak the bow. 

To that which England bore. 
The Isles-men carried at their backs 
The ancient Danish battle-axe. 
They raised a wild and wondering cry, 
.\s with his guide rode Marmion by. 
Loud were their clamoring tongues, as 

when 
The clanging sea-fowl leave the fen, 
And, with their cries discordant mix'd. 
Grumbled and yell'd the pipes betwixt 



Thus through the Scottish camp they 

pass'd, 
And reach'd the City gate at last. 
Where all around, a wakeful guard, 
Arm'd burghers kept their watch and ward 
Well had they cause of jealous fear. 
When lay encamp'd, in field so near, 
The Borderer and the Mountaineer. 
As through the busthng streets they go, 
All was alive with martial show : 
At every turn, with dinning clang, 
The armorer's anvil clash'd and rang ; 
Or toil'd the swarthy smith, to wheel 
The bar that arms the charger's heel ; 
Or axe, or falchion, to the side 
Of jarring grindstone was applied 






84 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Page, groom, and squire, with liurrying 

pace, 
Througli street, and lane, and market- 
place, 

Bore lance, or casque, or sword ; 
While burghers, with important face, 

Described each new-come lord, 
Discuss'd his lineage, told his name. 
His following, and his warlike fame. 
Tlie Lion led to lodging meet, 
Which high o'erlook'd the crowded street; 

There must the Baron rest, 
Till past the hour of vesper tide, 
And then to Holy-Rood must ride, — 

Such was the King's behest. 
Meanwhile the Lion's care assigns 
A banquet rich, and costly wines. 

To Marmion and his train ;56 
And when the appointed hour succeeds, 
The Baron dons his peaceful weeds. 
And following Lindesay as he leads. 

The palace-halls they gain. 



Old Holy-Rood rung merrily 
That night, with wassail, mirth, and glee ; 
King James within her princely bower. 
Feasted the Chiefs of Scotland's power, 
Summon'd to spend the parting liour ; 
For he had charged, that his array 
Should southward march by break of day. 
Well loved that splendid monarch aye 

The banquet and the song. 
By day the tourney, and by night 
The merry dance, traced fast and light, 
The maskers quaint, the pageant bright, 

The revel loud and long. 
This feast outshone his banquets past, 
It was his blithest — and his last. 
The dazzling lamps, from gallery gay, 
Cast on the Court a dancing rav : 
Here to the harp did minstrels sing ; 
There ladies touch'd a softer string ; 
With long-ear'd cap, and moiley vest 
The licensed fool retail'd his jest ; 
His magic tricks the juggler plied ; 
At dice and draughts the gallants vied ; 
While some, in close recess apart, 
Courted the ladies of their heart. 

Nor courted them in vain ; 
For often, in the parting hour. 
Victorious Love asserts his power 

O'er coldness and disdain ; 
And flinty is her heart, can view 
To battle march a lover true — 
Can hear, perchance, his last adieu, 

Nor own her share of pain. 



Through this mix'd crowd of glee and game^ 
The King to greet Lord Marmion came, 

While, reverent, all made room. 
An easy task it was, I trow. 
King James's manly form to know. 
Although, his courtesy to show, 
He doff'd to Marmion bending low, 

His broider'd cap and plume. 
For royal was his garb and mien, 

His cloak, of crimson velvet piled, 

Trimm'd with the fur of marten wild. 
His vest of changeful satin sheen. 

The dazzled eye beguiled ; 
His gorgeous collar hung adown. 
Wrought with the badge of Scotland's 

crown, 
The thistle brave, of old renown : 
His trusty blade, Toledo right. 
Descended from a baldric bright ; 
White were his buskins, on the heel 
His spurs inlaid of gold and steel • 
His bonnet, all of crimson fair. 
Was button'd with a ruby rare : 
And Marmion deem'd he ne'er had seen 
A prince of such a noble mien. 



The monarch's form was middle, size; 
For feat of strength, or exercise, 

Shaped in proportion fair ; 
-And hazel was his eagle eye, 
And auburn of the darkest dye. 

His short curl'd beard and hair. 
Lis^ht was his footstep in the dance, 

And firm his stirrup in the lists ; 
And, oh ! he had that merry glance. 

That seldom lady's heart resists. 
Lightly from fair to fair he flew. 
And loved to plead, lament, and sue ;— 
Suit lightly won, and short-lived pain. 
For monarchs seldom sigh in vain. 

I said he joy'd in banquet bower; 
But, 'mid his mirth, 'twas often strange, 
How suddenly his cheer would change. 

His look o'ercast and lower. 
If, in a sudden turn, he felt 
The pressure of his iron belt. 
That bound his breast in penance pain, 
In memory of his father slain. s' 
Even so 'twas strange how, evermore, 
Soon as the passing pang was o'er 
Forward he rush'd, with double glee. 
Into the stream of revelrv : 
Thus, dim-seen object of affriCTht 
Startles the courser in his flight. 





MARMION. 



85 



And halt he halts, half springs aside ; 
But feels the quickenin;; spur applied, 
And, straining on the tighten'd rein. 
Scours doubl)' swift o'er hill and plain. 



O'er James's heart, the courtiers say. 
Sir Hugh the Heron's wife held sway '.^^ 

To Scotland's Court she came, 
To be a hostage for her lord. 
Who Cessford's gallant heart had gored. 
And with the King to make accord, 

Had sent his lovely dame. 
Nor to that lady free alone 
Did the gay King allegiance own ; 

For the fair Queen of France 
Sent him a turquois ring and glove. 
And charged him, as her knight and love. 

For her to break a lance ; S9 
And strike three strokes with Scottish 

brand. 
And march three miles on Southron land. 
And bid the banners of his band 

In English breezes dance. 
And thus, for France's Queen he drest 
His manly limbs in mailed vest ; 
And thus admitted English fair 
His inmost counsels still to share ; 
And thus for both, he madly plann'd 
The ruin of himself and land ! 

And yet, the sooth to tell. 
Nor England's fair, nor France's Queen, 
Were worth one pearl-drop, bright and 
sheen. 

From Margaret's eyes that fell, — 
His own Queen Margaret, who, in Lith- 

gow's bower, 
All lonely sat, and wept the weary hour. 

X!. 

The Queen sits lone in Lithgow pile, 

And weeps the weary day. 
The war against her native soil. 
Her monarch's risk in battle broil : — 
And in gay Holy-Rood, the while. 
Dame Heron rises with a smile 

Upon the harp to play. 
Fair was her rounded arm, as o'er 

The strings her fingers flew ; 
And as she touch'd and tuned them ail. 
Even her bosom's rise and fall 

Was plainer given to view ; 
For, all for heat, was laid aside 
Her wimple, and her hood untied. 
And first she pitch'd her voice to sing, 
Then glanced her dark eye on the King, 
And then around the silent ring ; 



And laugh'd, and blush'd, and oft did say 

Her pretty oath, by Yea and Nay, 

She could not, would not, durst not play I 

At length, upon the harp, with glee. 

Mingled with arch simplicity, 

A soft, yet lively air she rung,. 

While thus the wily lady sung :— 

XII. 

LOCHINVAR. 

L.'iDY heron's song. 

O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west, 
Through all the wide Border his steed was 

the best ; 
And save his good broadsword he weapons 

had none, 
He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone. 
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war. 
There never was knight like the young 

Lochinvar. 

He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not 

for stone, 
He swam the Eske river where ford there 

was none ; 
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate. 
The bride had consented, the gallant came 

late: 
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, 
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Loch« 

invar. 

So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall, 
Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and 

brothers, and all : 
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on 

his sword, 
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never 

a word,) 
" O come ye in peace here, or come ye in 

war, 
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord 

Lochinvar 1 " — 

" 1 long woo'd your daughter, my suit you 

denied ; — 
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like 

its tide — 
•And now am I come, with this lost love of 

mine. 
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of 

wine. 
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely 

by far. 
That would gladly be bride to the young 

Lochinvar." 







86 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The bride kiss'd the goblet : the knight took 

it up, 
He quaff'd off the wine, ar.d he tlirew down 

tlie cup. 
Slie look'd down to bhish, and she look'd up 

to sigh, 
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her 

eye. 
He took her soft liand, ere her mother could 

bar, — 
" Now tread we a measure ! " said young 

Lochinvar. 

So stately his form, and so lovely her face, 
That never a hall such a galliard did grace ; 
While her mother did fret, and her father 

did fume, 
And the bridegroom stood dangling his 

bonnet and plume ; 
And the bride-maidens whisper' d, "'Twcre 

better by far, 
To have match 'd our fair cousin with young 

Lochinvar." 

One touch to her hand, and one word in her 

ear. 
When they reach'd the hall-door, and the 

charger stood near ; 
So light to the croupe the fair lady he 

swung, 
So light to the saddle before her he sprung ! 
" She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, 

and scaur , 
They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth 

yoimg Lochinvar. 

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the 

Netherby clan ; 
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they 

rode and th ey ran ; 
There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie 

Lee, 
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did 

they see. 
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, 
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young 

Lochinvar ? 



The Monarch o'er the siren hung 

And beat the measure as she sung ; 
And, pressing closer, and more near, 
He whisper'd praises in her ear. 
In loud applause the courtiers vied ; 
And ladies wink'd, and spoke aside. 

The witching dame to Marmion threw 
A glance, where seem'd to reign 

The pride that claims applauses due. 



And of her royal conquest too, 
A real or feign'd disdain : 
Familiar was the lookj, and told, 
IVIannion and she were friends of old. 
The King observed their meeting eyes. 
With something like displeased surprise ; 
For monarchs ill can rivals brook. 
Even in a word, or smile, or look. 
Straight took he forth the parchment broad, 
Which Marmion's high commission show'd ; 
" Our Borders sack'd by many a raid, 
Our peaceful liege-men robb'd," he said : 
" On day of truce our Warden slam. 
Stout Barton kill'd, his vassals ta'en — 
Unworthy were we here to reign. 
Should these for vengeance cry in vain ; 
Our full defiance, hate, and scorn. 
Our herald has to Heni-y borne." 



He paused, and led where Douglas stood, 

And with stern eye the pageant view'd : 
I mean that Douglas, sixth of yore. 
Who coronet of Angus bore. 
And, when his blood and heart were high, 
Did the third James in camp defy. 
And all his minions led to die 

On Lauder's dreary flat : 
Princes and favorites long grew tame, 
And trembled at the homely name 

Of Archibald Bell-the-Cat ;«'° 
The same who left the dusky vale 
Of Hermitage in Liddisdale, 

Its dungeons, and its towers. 
Where Bothwell's turrets brave the air, 
And Bothwell bank is blooming fair. 

To fix his princely bowers. 
Though now, in age, he had laid down 
His armor for the peaceful gown 

And for a staff his brand. 
Yet often would flash forth the fire. 
That could, in youth, a monarch's ire 

And minion's pride withstand •- 
And even that day, at council board, 

Unapt to soothe his sovereign's mood, 

Against the war had Angus stood, 
And chafed his royal lord.^' 



His giant-form, like ruin'd tower. 
Though fall'n its muscles' brawny vaunt, 
Huge-boned, and tall, and grim, and gaunt 

Seem'd o'er the gaudy scene to lower; 
His locks and beard in silver grew ; 
His eyebrows kept their sable hue. 



^^ 



^-A- 






MARMION. 



87 



Near Douglas when the Monarch stood, 
His bitter speech he thus pursued : 
" Lord Marmion, since these letters say 
That in the North you needs must stay, 

While slightest hopes of peace remain, 
Uncourteous speech it were, and stern. 
To say — Return to Lindisfarne, 

Until my herald come again. — 
Then rest you in Tantallon Hold ; ^- 
Your host shall be the Douglas bold,— 
A chief unlike his sires of old. 
He wears tlieir motto on his blade,^^ 
Their blazon o'er his towers display'd ; 
Yet loves his sovereign to oppose, 
More than to face his country's foes. 
And, I bethink me, by St. .Stephen, 
But e'en this mom to me was given 
A prize, the first-fruits of the war, 
Ta'en by a galley from Dunbar, 

A bevy of the maids of Heaven. 
U nder your guard, these holy maids 
Shall safe return to cloister shades, 
And, while they at Tantallon stay. 
Requiem for Cochran's soul may say." 
And, with the slaughter'd favorite's name. 
Across the Monarch's brow there came 
A cloud of ire, remorse, and shame. 



In answer nought could Angus speak ; 
His proud heart swell'd wellnigli to break ; 
He turn'd aside, and down his cheek 

A burning tear there stole. 
His hand the Monarch sudden took. 
That sight his kind heart could not brook : 

" Now, by the Brace's soul, 
Angus, my hasty speech forgive ! 
For sure as doth his spirit live, 
As he said of the Douglas old, 

I well may say of you, — 
That never king did subject hold. 
In speech more free, in war more bold, 

More tender and more true ■ 
Forgive me, Douglas, once again.'' — 
And, while the King Jiis hand did strain. 
The old man's tears fell down like rain. 
To seize the moment Marmion tried. 
And whisper'd to the King aside ; 
" Oh ! let such tears unwonted plead 
For respite short from dubious deed ! 
A child will weep a bramble smart, 
A maid to see her sparrow part, 
A stripling for a woman's heart ; 
But woe awaits a country, when 
She sees the tears of bearded men. 
Then, oh ! what omen, dark and high, 
When Douglas wets his manly eye 1 " 



Displeased was James, that stranger view'd 

And tamper'd with his changing mood. 

" Laugh those that can, weep those thai 

may," 
Thus did the fiery Monarch say, 
" Southward I march by break of day ; 
And if within Tantallon strong. 
The good Lord Marmion tarries long, 
Perchance our meeting next may fall 
At Tamworth, in his castle-hall." — 
The haughty Marmion felt the taunt, 
.-\nd answer'd, grave, the royal vaunt: 
" Much honor'd were my humble home, 
If in its halls King James should come, 
But Nottingham has archers good. 
And Yorkshire men are stern of mood ; 
Northumbrian prickers wi'd and rude. 
On Derby Hills the paths are steep ; 
In Ouse and Tyne the fords are deep ; 
And many a bannei will be torn, 
.\nd many a knight to earth be borne. 
And many a sheaf of arrows spent. 
Ere Scotland's King shall cross the Trent. 
Yet pause, brave Prince, while yet you 

may !" — 
The Monarch lightly turn'd away. 
And to his nobles loud did call, — 
" Lords, to the dance, — a hall ! a hall ! " * 
Himself his cloak and sword flung b}'. 
And led Dame Heron gallantly ; 
And minstrels, at the royal order. 
Rung out — "Blue Bonnets o'er the Bor 

der." 



Leave we these revels now, to tell 
What to Saint Hilda's maids befell, 
Whose galley, as they sail'd again 
To Whitby, by a Scot was ta'en. 
Now at Dun-Edin did they bide. 
Till James should of their fate decide; 

And soon, by his command, 
Were gently summon'd to prepare 
To journey under Marmion's care, 
As escort honor'd, safe, and fair. 

Again to English land. 
The Abbess told her chaplet o'er. 
Nor knew which saint she should implore 
For, when she thought of Constance, sore 

She fear'd Lord Marmion's mood. 
And judge what Clara must have felt ! 
The sword, that hung in Marmion's belt, 

Had drunk De Wilton's blood. 

• The ancient cry to make room for a dance, 
or pageant. 





O \3 



©^ 




88 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Unwittingly, King James had given, 

As guard t(j Wliitby's shades, 
The man most dreaded under Heaven 

By these defenceless maids : 
Yet what petition could avail. 
Or wlio would listen to the tale 
Of woman, prisoner, and nun, 
'Mid bustle of a war begun ? 
Tliey deem'd it hopeless to avoid 
Tlie convoy of their dangerous guide. 

XIX. 

Their lodging, so the King assign'd, 
To Marmion's, as their guardian join'd ; 
And thus it fell, that passing nigh. 
The Palmer caught the Abbess' eye, 

Who warn'd him by a scroll, 
£he had a secret to reveal, 
That much concern'd the Church's weal, 

And health of sinner's soul ; 
And, with deep charge of secrecy, 

She named a place to meet, 
V.'ithin an open balcony, 
That hung from dizzy pitch, and high, 

Above the stately street ; 
To which, as common to each home, 
At night they might in secret come. 

XX. 

At night, in secret there they came, 
The Palmer and the holy Dame. 
The moon among the clouds rode high, 
And all the city hum was by. 
Upon the street, where late before 
Did din of war and warriors roar, 

Vou might have heard a pebble fall, 
A beetle hum, a cricket sing. 
An owlet flap his boding wing 

On Giles's steeple tall. 
The antique buildings, climbing high. 
Whose Gothic frontlets sought tlie sky. 

Were here wrapt deep in shade ; 
There on their brows the moon-beam 

broke. 
Through the faint wreaths of silvery smoke, 

And on the casements play'd. 

And other light was none to see, 
Save torches gliding far, 

Before some chieftain of degree. 

Who left the royal revelry 
To bowne him for the war. — 
A solemn scene the Abbess chose ; 
A solemn hour, her secret to disclose. 

XXI. 

" O, holy Palmer ! " she began, — 
" For sure he must be sainted man, 
Whose blessed feet have trod tlie ground 



Where the Redeemer's tomb is found, — 
For His dear Church'.s sake, my tale 
.'\ttend, nor deem of light avail. 
Though I must speak of worldly love, — 
How vain to those who wed above.' — 
De Wilton and Lord Marmion woo'd 
Clara de Clare of Gloster's blood; 
(Idle it were of Whitby's dame, 
To say of tiiat same blood I came;) 
And once, when jealous rage was high, 
Lord Marmion said despiteously, 
Wilton was traitor in his heart. 
And had made league with Martin Swart, ^-i 
Wiien he came liere on Simnel's part; 
And only cowardice did restrain 
His rebel aid on Stokefield's plain, — 
And down he threw liis glove: — the thing 
Was tried, as wont, before the King ; 
Where frankly did De Wilton own, 
That Swart in Gueldres he had known ; 
And that between them then there went 
Some scroll of courteous compliment. 
For this he to his castle sent ; 
But when his messenger return'd, 
Judge how De Wilton's fury burn'd! 
For in his packet there were laid 
Letters that claim'd disloyal aid. 
And proved King Henry's cause betray'd, 
His fame, tlius blighted, in the field 
He strove to clear, by spear and shield; — 
To clear his fame in vain he strove, 
For wondrous are His ways above! 
Perchance some form was unobserved; 
Perchance in prayer or faith he swerved ; 
F^lse how could guiltless champion quail, 
Or how the blessed ordeal fail.'' 

XXII. 

" His squire, who now De Wilton saw 
As recreant doom'd to suffer law, 

Repentant, own'd in vain, 
That, while he had the scrolls in care, 
A stranger maiden, passing fair, 
Had drench'd him with a beverage rare. 

His words no faith could gain. 
With Clare alone he credence won. 
Who, rather than wed Marmion, 
Did to Saint Hilda's shrine repair. 
To give our house her livings fair 
.\nd die a vestal vot'ress there. 
The impulse from the earth was given. 
But bent her to the paths of heaven. 
A purer heart, a lovelier maid. 
Ne'er shelter'd her in Whitby's shade 
\o, not since Saxon Edelfled; 

Only one trace of earthly strain, 
That for her lover's loss 









c 


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1 


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MARMION. 89 






She cherishes a sorrow vain. 


0, blessed Saint, if e'er again 




And nuirmurs at the cross. — 


I venturous le?ve thy calm domain. 






And then her heritage ; — it goes 


To travel or by land or main. 




*■ 


Along the banks of Tame ; 


Deep penance may I pay ! — 






Deep fields of grain the reaper mows, 


Now, saintly Palmer, mark my prayer' 






In meadows rich the heifer lows, 


I give this packet to thy care. 






The falconer and huntsman knows 


For thee to stop they will not dare , 






Its woodlands for the game. 


And ! with cautious speed. 






Shame were it to Saint Hilda dear. 


To Wolsey's hand the papers bring. 






And I, her humble vot'ress here, 


That he may show them to tlie King ' 






Should do a deadly sin, 


And, for thy well-earn'd meed. 






Her temple spoil'd before mine eyes, 


Thou holy man, at Whitby's shrine 






If tills false IVIarmion such a prize 


A weekly mass shall still be thine. 






By my consent should win ; 


While priests can sing and read. — 






Yet hath our boisterous monarch sworn 


What ail'st thou 1 — Speak ! " For as betook 






That Clare shall from our liouse be torn, 


The charge, a strong emotion shook 






And grievous cause have 1 to fear 


His frame ; and, ere reply. 






Such mandate doth Lord Marniion bear. 


They heard a faint, yet shrilly tone. 
Like distant clarion feebly blown, 






XXIII. 


That on the breeze did die ; 






" Now, prisoner, helpless, and betray'd 


And loud the Abbess .shriek'd in fear, 






To evil power, I claim thine aid. 


" Saint Withold, save us ! — What is here , 






By every step that thou hast trod 


Look at yon City Cross ! 






To holy shrine and grotto dim, 


See on its battled tower appear 






By every martyr's tortured limb, 


Phantoms, that scutcheons seem to rear, 






By angel, saint, and seraphim. 


And blazon' d banners toss !" 






And by the Church of God ! 








For mark :— When Wilton was betray'd. 


XXV. 






And with his squire forged letters laid, 


Dun-Edin's Cross, a pillar'd stone,** 






Slie was, alas ! that sinful maid. 


Rose on a turret octagon ; 






By whom the deed was done, — 


(But now is razed that monument. 






! shame and horror to be said ! — 


Whence royal edict rang. 






She was a perjured nun ! 


And voice of Scotland's law was sent 






No clerk in all the land, like her. 


In glorious trumpet-clang. 






Traced quaint and varying character. 


! be his tomb as lead to lead, 






Perchance you may a mar\'el deem. 


Upon its dull destroyer's head ! 






That IMarmion's paramour 


A minstrel's maiison * is said.) 






(For such vile thing she was) should scheme 


Then on its battlements they saw 






Her lover's nuptial hour ; 


A vision, passing Nature's law. 






But o'er him thus she hoped to gain 


Strange, wild, and dimly seen ; 






As privy to his honor's stain. 


Figures "that seem'd to rise and die, 






Illimitable power : 


Gibber and sign, advance and fly. 






For this she secretly retain'd 


While nought confirm'd could ear or eye 






Each proof that might the plot reveal, 


Discern of sound or mien. 






Instructions with his hand and seal ; 


Yet darkly did it seem, as there 






And thus Saint Hilda deign'd. 


Heralds and Pursuivants prepare, 






Through sinner's perfidy impure, 


With trumpet sound and blazon fair, 






Her house's glory to secure. 


A summons to proclaim ; 






And Clare's immortal weal. 


But indistinct the pageant proud, 
As fancy forms of midnight cloud. 






XXIV. 


When flings the moon upon her shroud 






"'Twere long, and needless, here to tell. 


A wavering tinge of flame ; 






, T How to my hand these papers fell ; 


It flits, expands, and shifts, till loud, 


^ 




With me they must not stay. 


From midmost of the spectre crowd, 






Saint Hilda keep her Abbess true ! 


This awful summons came : ^^ — 






■\HrU« l.-Tin,>,c -i.tUTf ri.iti-orrra lie. mirrhf Hr, 








S^ 


Wliile journeying by the way .'' — 

c_^ -0 _ 


* Curse. 




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1 





SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



•' Prince, prelate, potentate, and peer, 

Whose names I now shall call, 
Scottish, or foreigner, give ear ; 
Subjects of him who sent me here, 
At his tribunal to appear, 

1 summon one and all : 
I cite you by each deadly sin. 
That e'er hath soil'd your hearts within : 
I cite you by each brutal lust. 
That e'er defiled your earthly dust, — 

By wrath, by pride, by fear, 
By each o'er-mastering passion's tone. 
By the dark grave, and dying groan ! 
When forty days are pass'd and gone, 
1 cite you, at your Monarch's throne. 

To answer and appear." 
Then thunder'd forth a roll of names : 
The first was thine, unhappy James ! 

Then all thy nobles came ; 
Crawford, Glencairn, Montrose, Argyle, 
Ross, Bothwell, Forbes, Lennox, Lyle, — 
Why should 1 tell their separate style ? 

Each chief of birth and fame. 
Of Lowland, Highland, Border, Isle, 
Fore-doom'd to Flodden's carnage pile, 

Was cited there by name ; 
And Marmion, Lord of Fontenaye, 
Of Lutterward, and Scrivelbsye ; 
De Wilton, erst of Aberley, 
The self-same thundering voice did say. — 

But then another spoke : 
" Thy fatal summons I deny. 
And thine infernal Lord defy. 
Appealing me to Him on High, 

Who burst the sinner's yoke." 
At that dread accent, with a scream, 
parted the pageant like a dream, 

The summoner was gone. 
Prone on her face the Abbess fell 
And fast, and fast, her beads did tell ; 
Her nuns came, startled by the yell, 

And found her there alone. 
She mark'd not, at the scene aghast. 
What time, or how, the Palmer pass'd. 

XXVII. 

Shift we the scene. — The camp doth move, 

Dun-Edin's streets are empty now, 
Save when, for weal of those they love. 

To pray the prayer, and vow the vow, 
The tottering child, the anxious fair, 
The gray-Kair'd sire, with pious care, 
To chapels and to shnnes repair — 
VVliere is the Pahner now 'i and where 
The Abbess, Marmion, and Clare? — 
Bold Douglas I to Tantallon fair 



They journey in thy charge : 
Lord INlarmion rode on his right hand, 
The Palmer still was with the band ; 
Angus, like Lindesay, did command, 

That none should roam at large. 
But in that Palmer's altered mien 
A wondrous change might now be seen, 

Freely he spoke of war. 
Of marvels wrought by single hand, 
When lifted for a native land ; 
And still look'd high, as if he plann'd 

Some desperate deed afar. 
His courser would he feed and stroke, 
.■\nd, tucking up his sable frocke. 
Would first his mettle bold provoke, 

Then soothe or quell his pride. 
Old Hubert said, tliat never one 
He saw, except Lord Marmion, 

A steed so fairly ride. 

XXVIII. 

Some half-hour's march behind, there came, 
By Eustace govern'd fair, 

A troop escorting Hilda's Dame, 
With all her nuns, and Clare. 

No audience had Lord Marmion sought ; 
Ever he fear'd to aggravate 
Clara de Clare's suspicious hate ; 

And safer 'twas, he thought. 

To wait till, from the nuns removed, 
The influence of kinsmen loved, 
And suit by Henry's self-approved. 

Her slow consent had wrought. 

His was no flickering flame, that dies 
Unless when fann'd by looks and sighs, 
And lighted oft at lady's eyes ; 
He long'd to stretch his wide command 
O'er luckless Clara's ample land : 
Besides, when Wilton with him vied, 
Although the pang of humbled pride 
The place of jealousy supplied, 

Yet conquest by that meanness won 

He almost loath'd to think upon, 

Led him, at times, to hate the cause, 

Which made him burst through honor's 
laws. 

If e'er he loved, 'twas her alone. 

Who died within that vault of stone. 



And now, when close at hand they saw 
North Berwick's town, and lofty Law, 
Fitz-Eustace bade them pause awhile, 
Before a venerable pile,* 



* A convent of Cistertian nuns, founded by 
the Earl of Fife in 12 16. 






MARMION. 



Whose turrets view'd, afar, 
The lofty Bass, the Lambie Isle, 

The ocean's peace or war. 
At tolling of a bell, forth came 
The convent's venerable Dame, 
And pray'd Saint Hilda's Abbess rest 
With her, a loved and honor'd guest. 
Till Douglas should a bark prepare 
To waft her back to Whitby fair. 
Glad was the Abbess, you may guess, 
And thank'd the Scottish Prioress ; 
And tedious were to tell, I ween. 
The courteous speech that pass'd between. 

O'erjoy'd the nuns their palfreys leave ; 
But when fair Clara did intend. 
Like them, from horseback to descend, 

Fitz-Eustace said,—" I grieve. 
Fair lady, grieve e'en from my heart. 
Such gentle company to part ; — 

Think not discourtesy, 
But lords' commands must be obey'd ; 
And Marmion and the Douglas said, 

That you must wend with me. 
Lord Marmion hath a letter broad, 
Which to the Scottish Earl he show'd, 
Commanding that, beneath his care. 
Without delay, you shall repair 
To your good kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare." 



The startled Abbess loud exclairn'd ; 
But she, at whom the blow was aim'd, 
Grew pale as death, and cold as lead, — 
She deem'd she heard her death-doom read. 
" Cheer thee, my child ! " the Abbess said, 
" They dare not tear thee from my hand, 
To ride alone with armed band." 

" Nay, holy mother, nay," 
Fitz-Eustace said, " the lovely Clare 
Will be in Lady Angus' care, 
In Scotland while we stay ; 
And, when we move, an easy ride 
Will bring us to the English side, 
Female attendance to provide 

Befitting Gloster's heir : 
Nor thinks not dreams my noble lord, 
By slightest look, or act, or word. 

To harass Lady Clare. 
Her faithful guardian he will be. 
Nor sue for slightest courtesy 
That e'en to a stranger falls, 
Till he shall place her, safe and free. 

Within her kinsman's halls." 
He spoke, and blush'd with earnest grace; 
His faith was painted on his face. 
And Clare's worst fear relieved. 



The Lady Abbess loud exclairn'd 
On Henry, and the Douglas blamed, 

Entreated, threaten'd, grieved ; 
To martyr, saint, and prophet pray'd, 
Against Lord Marmion inveigh'd, 
And call'd the Prioress to aid. 
To curse with candle, bell, and book. 
Her head the grave Cistertian shook : 
" The Douglas, and the King," she said, 
" In their commands will be obey'd ; 
Grieve not, nor dream that harm can fall 
The maiden in Tantallon hall.'' 



The Abbess, seeing strife was vain. 
Assumed her wonted state again, — 

For much of state she had, — 
Composed her veil, and raised her head. 
And — " Bid." in solemn voice she said, 

" Thy master, bold and bad, 
The records of his house turn o'er. 

And, when he shall there written see, 

That one of his own ancestry 

Drove the Monks forth of Coventry,*' 
Bid him his fate explore ! 

Prancing in pride of earthly trust. 

His charger hurl'd him to the dust. 

And, by a base plebeian thrust, 
He died his band before. 

God judge 'twixt Marmion and me; 

He is a Chief of high degree. 
And I a poor recluse : 

Yet oft, in holy writ, we see 

Even such weak minister as me 
May the oppressor bruise : 

For thus, inspired, did Judith slay 
The mighty in his sin, 

And Jael thus, and Deborah " 

Here hasty Blount broke in : 
" Fitz-Eustace, we must march our band ; 
St. Anton' fire thee ! wilt thou stand 
All day, with bonnet in thy hand. 

To hear the lady preach ? 
By this good light ! if thus we stay. 
Lord Marmion, for our fond delay, 

Will sharper sermon teach. 
Come, don thy cap, and mount thy horse ; 
The dame must patience take perforce." 

XX.XII. 

"Submit we then to force," said Clare, 
" But let this barbarous lord despair 

His purposed aim to win ; 
Let him take living, land, and life : 
But to be Marmion's wedded wife 

In me were deadly sin : 
And if it be the King's decree 
That I must find no sanctuary, 





V 





92 



scorr's poetical works. 



In that inviolable dome, 

Where even a honiicide might come, 

And safely rest his head, 
Though at its open portals stood, 
Thirsting to pour forth blood for blood. 

The kinsmen of the dead , 
Yet one asylum is my own 

Against the dreaded hour ; 
A low, a silent, and a lone, 

Wliere kings have little power. 
One victim is before me there. — 
Mother, your blessing, and in prayer, 
Remember your unhappy Clare ! '' 
Loud weeps the Abbess, and bestows 

Kind blessings many a one : 
Weeping and wailing loud arose. 
Round patient Clare, the clamorous woes 

Of every simple nun. 
His eyes the gentle Eustace dried. 
And scarce rude Blount the sight could 
bide. 

Then took the squire her rein, 
And gently led away her steed. 
And, by each courteous word and deed, 

To cheer her strove in vain. 

XXXIII. 

But scant three miles the band had rode 

When o'er a height they pass'd, 
And, sudden, close before them showed 

His towers, Tantallon vast ; 
Broad, massive, liigh, and stretching far. 
And held impregnable in war. 
On a projecting rock they rose. 
And round three sides the ocean flows. 
The fourth did battled walls enclose. 

And double mound and fosse. 
By narrow drawbridge, outworks strong, 
Through studded gates, an entrance long, 

To the main court they cross. 
It was a wide and stately square : 
Around were lodgings, fit and fair. 

And towers of various form, 
Whic!i on the court projected far. 
And bi'oke its lines quadrangular. 
Here was square keep, there turret high, 
Or pinnacle that sought the sky, 
Whence oft the wanderer could descry 

The gathering ocean storm. 

XXXIV. 

Here did they rest. — The princely care 
Of Douglas, wliy should I declare, 
Or say they met reception fair ; 

Or vvhy the tidings say. 
Which, varying, to Tantallon came, 
By hurrying posts of fleeter fame. 



With ever varying day .'' 
And, first they heard King James had won 

Etall, and Wark, and Ford ; and then, 

That Norham Castle strong was ta'en. 
At that sore marvell'd Marniion ; — 
And Douglas hoped his monarch's hand 
Would soon subdue Northumberland : 

But whisper'd news there came, 
That, while his host inactive lay, 
And melted by degrees away, 
King James was dallying off the day 

With Heron's wily dame.— 
Such acts to chronicles I yield ; 

Go seek them there, and see : 
Mine is a tale of Flodden Field, 

And not a history. — 
At length they heard the Scottish host 
On that high ridge had made their post, 

Which frov/ns o'er Millfield Plain; 
And that brave Surrey many a band 
Had gatlier'd in the Southern land, 
And march'd into Northumberland, 

And camp at Wooler ta'en. 
Marmion, like charger in the stall, 
That hears, without, the trumpet-call, 

Began to chafe, and swear : — 
" A sorry tiling to hide my head 
In castle, like a fearful maid. 

When such a field is near ! 
Needs must I see this battle-day: 
Death to my fame if such a fray 
Were fought, and Marmion away ! 
The Douglas, too, I wot not why, 
Hath 'bated of his courtesy: 
No longer in his halls I'll stay." 
Then hade his band they should array 
For march against the dawning day. 



INTRODUCTION TO CANTO 
SIXTH. 

TO RICHARD HEBER, ESQ. 

AIcrtoitn-Hoicse, Cliristmas 
Heap on more wood ! — the wind is chill : 
But let it whistle as it will. 
We'll keep our Christmas merry still. 
Each age has deem'd the new-born year 
The fittest time for festal cheer : 
Even, heathen yet, the savage Dane 
At lol more deep the mead did drain ;^^ 
High on the beach his galleys drew. 
And feasted all his pirate crew; 
Then in his low and pine-built hall. 
Where sliields and axes deck'd the wall. 







j£ 




MARMION. 



93 



They gorged upon the half-dress'd Gteer ; 

Caroused in seas of sable beer ; 

While round, in brutal jest, were thrown 

The half-gnaw'd rib and marrow-bone : 

Or listen'd all, in grim delight, 

While Scalds yell'd out the joys of fight. 

Then forth, in frenzy, would they hie. 

While wildly-loose their red lock's fly. 

And dancing round the blazing pile, 

They make such barbarous mirth the while, 

.As best might to the mind recall 

The boisterous joys of Odin's hall. 

And well our Christian sires of old 
Loved when the year its course had roll'd, 
And brought blithe Christmas back again. 
With all his hospitable train. 
Domestic and religious rite 
Gave honor to the holy night ; 
On Christmas eve the bells were rung ; 
On Christmas eve the mass was sung ; 
That only night in all the year. 
Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear. 
The damsel donn'd her kirtle sheen ; 
The hall was dress'd with holly green ; 
Forth to the wood did merry-men go, 
To gather in the mistletoe. 
Then open'd wide the Baron's hall 
To vassal, tenant, serf, and all ; 
Power laid his rod of rule aside. 
And Ceremony doff'd his pride. 
The heir with roses in his slioes. 
That night might village partner choose ; 
The Lord, underogating, share 
The vulgar game ot " post and pair." * 
All hail'd with uncontroll'd delight. 
And general voice, the happy night. 
That to the cottage, as the crown, 
Brought tidings of salvation down. 

The fire, with well-dried logs supplied, 
Went roaring up the chimney wide ; 
The huge hall-table's oaken face, 
Scrubb'd it shone, the day to grace, 
Jore then upon its massive board 
A^o mark to part the squire and lord. 
Then was brought in the lusty brawn, 
By old blue-coated serving-man ; 
Then the grim boar's head frown'd on jiigh, 
Crested with bays and rosemary. 
Well can the green-garb'd ranger tell. 
How, when, and where, the monster fell ; 
What dogs before his death he tore, 
And all the baiting of the boar. 
The wassel round, in good brown bowls, 
Garnish'd with ribbons, blithely trowls. 

• An old game at cards. 



There the huge sirloin reek'd ; hard by 
Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie; 
Nor fail'd old Scotland to produce. 
At such high tide, her savory goose. 
Then came the merry maskers in. 
And carols roar'd with blithesome din ; 
If unmelodious was the song. 
It was a hearty note, and strong. 
Who lists may in their mumming see 
Traces of ancient mystery ; ^9 
White shirts supplied the masquerade. 
And smutted cheeks the visors made ;' 
But, O ! what maskers, richly dight, 
Can boast of bosoms half so light ! 
England was merry England, when 
Old Christmas brought his sports agam. 
'Twas Christmas broach'd the mightiest ale ; 
'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale ; 
A Christmas gambol oft could cheer 
The poor man's heart through half the 
year. 

Still linger, in our northern clime, 
Some remnants of the good old time; 
.'Vnd still, within our valleys here, 
Wc hold the kindred title dear. 
Even when, perchance, its far-fetch'd claim 
To Southron ear sounds empty name ; 
For course of blood, oui proverbs deem, 
Is warmer than the mountain-stream.f 
.'\nd thus, my Christmas still I hold 
Where my great grandsire came of old, 
With amber beard, and flaxen hair, 
And reverend apostolic air — 
The feast and holy-tide to share. 
And mix sobriety with wine. 
And honest mirth with thoughts divine: 
Small thought was his, in after time 
E'er to be hitch'd into a rhyme. 
The simple sire could only boast. 
That he was loyal to his cost ; 
The banish'd race of kings revered. 
And lost his land, — but kept his beard. 

In these dear halls, where welcome kind 
Is with fair liberty combined ; 
Where cordial friendship gives the hand, 
And flies constraint the magic wand 
Of the fair dame that rules the land. 
Little we heed tlie tempest drear. 
While music, mirth, and social cheer, 
Speed on their wings the passing year 
And Mertoun's halls are fair e'en now, 
Wlien not a leaf is on the bough. 
Tweed loves them well, and turns again, 
As loath to leave the sweet domain, 

t '' Blood is warmer than water." 






^SEfei 



94 



SC07'7"S FOEriCAL WORKS. 



And holds his miiTor to her face, 
And dips her witli a close embrace : — 
Gladly as he, we seek the dome, 
And as reluctant turn us home. 

How just that, at this time of glee. 
My thoughts should, Heber, turn to thee ! 
For many a merry hour we've known, 
And heard the chimes of midnight tone. 
Cease, then, my friend! a moment cease, 
And leave these classic tomes in peace ! 
Of Roman and of Grecian lore, 
Sure mortal brain can hold no more. 
These ancients, as Noll Bluff might say, 
"Were pretty fellows in their day ; " 
But time and tide o'er all prevail — 
On Christmas eve a Christmas tale — 
Of wonder and of war — " Profane ! 
What ! leave the lofty Latian strain, 
Her stately prose, her verse's charms, 
To hear the clash of rusty arms : 
In Fairy Land or Limbo lost, 
To jostle conjuror and ghost. 
Goblin and witch!" — Xay, Heber dear. 
Before you touch my charter, hear: 
Though Leyden aids, alas ! no more, 
My cause with many-languaged lore, 
This may I say : — in realms of death 
Ulysses meets Alcides' xvyaith ; 
jEneas, upon Thracia's shore, 
The ghost of murder'd Polydore ; 
For omens, we in Livy cross, 
At every turn, locittus Bos. 
As grave and duly speaks that ox, 
As if he told the price of stocks ; 
Or held, in Rome republican. 
The place of common-councilman. 

All nations have their omens drear, 
Their legends wild of woe and fear. 
To Cambria look — the peasant see, 
Bethink him of Glendowerdy, 
And shun '• the spirit's Blasted Tree.' * 
The Highlander, whose red claymore 
The battle turn'd on Maida's shore. 
Will, on a Friday morn, look pale. 
If ask'd to tell a 'fairy tale : '° 
He fears the vengeful Elfin King, 
Who leaves tliat day his grassy ring ■. 
Invisible to human ken. 
He walks among the sons of men. 

Didst e'er, dear Heber, pass along 
Beneath the towers of Franchemont, 

^ * Alluding to the Welsh tradition of 'Howe! 
Bell and Owen Glendwr. Howel fell in single 
combat against Glendwr, and his body was 
concealed in a hollow oak. 



Which, like an eagle's nest in air, 

Hang o'er the stream and hamlet fair ? 

Deep in their vaults, the peasants sav, 

A mighty treasure buried lay, 

Amass'd through rapine and through wrong, 

By the last Lord of Franchemont."' 

The iron chest is bolted hard, 

A huntsman sits its constant guard ; 

Around his neck his horn is hung, 

His hanger in his belt is slung ; 

Before his feet his blood-hounds lie. 

An 'twere not for his gloomy c\ c, 

Whose withering glance no heart can brook. 

As true a himtsman doth he look, 

yVs bugle e'er in brake did sound, 

Or ever halloo'd to a hound. 

To chase the fiend, and win the prize, 

In that same dungeon ever tries 

An aged necromantic priest ; 

It; is an hundred years at least. 

Since 'twixt them first the strife begun, 

An 1 neither yet has lost nor won. 

.4nd oft the Conjurer's words will make 

The stubborn Demon groan and quake ; 

And oft the bands of iron break, 

Or bursts one lock, that still amain, 

Fast as 'tis open'd, shuts again. 

That magic strife within the tomb 

May last until the day of doom. 

Unless the adept shall learn to tell 

The very word that clench'dthe spell. 

When Franch'mont lock'd the treasure 

cell. 
Kx\ hundred years are pass'd and gone, 
.\nd scarce three letters has he won. 



Such genera! superstition may 
E.xcuse for old Fitscottie say ; 
Whose gossip history has given 
My song the messenger from Heaven, 
That varn'd, in Lithgow, Scotland's King, 
Nor less the infernal summoning ; 
May pass the Monk of Durham's tale, 
Whose demon fought in Gothic mail ; 
May pardon j^lead for Fordiin grave, 
Who told of Gifford's Goblin-Cave. 
But why such instances to you. 
Who, in an instant, can renew 
Your treasured hoards of various Icre, 
And furnish twenty thousand more ; 
Hoards, not like theirs whose volumes rest 
Lil:e treasin-es in the Franch'mont chest, 
While gripple owners still refuse 
To others what they cannot use ; 
Give them the priest's whole century. 
They slir.ll not spall you letters three ; 



s\ ri 






MARMION. 



Their pleasure in the books tlie same 
The magpie takes in pilfer'd gem. 
Thy volumes, open as thy heart, 
Delight, amusement, science, art, 
To every ear and eye impart ; 
Yet who of all who thus' employ them, 
Can like the owner's self enjoy them ?^ 
But, hark ! I liear the distant'dnmi ! 
The day of Flodden Field is come. — 
Adieu, dear Heber ! life and health. 
And store of literary wealth. 



CANTO SIXTH. 

THE BATTLE. 



While great events were on the gale, 
And each hour brought a varying tale, 
And the demeanor, changed and cold, 
Of Douglas, fretted Marniion bold, 
And, like the impatient steed of war. 
He snuff' d the battle from afar ; 
And hopes were none, that back again 
Herald should come from Terouenne. 
Where England's King in leaguer lay. 
Before decisive battle-day ; 
Whilst these things were, the mournful 

Clare 
Did in the Dame's devotions share : 
For the good Countess ceaseless prav'd 
To heaven and Saints, her sons to aid. 
And, with short interval, did pass 
From prayer to book, from book to mass. 
And all in high Baronial pridc,^ 
A life both dull and dignified ; 
Vet as Lord Marmion nothing press' d 
Upon her intervals of rest, 
Dejected Clara well could bear 
The formal state, the lenrthen'd prayer. 
Though dearest to her wounded heart 
The hours that she might spend apart. 

II. 
I said, Tantallon's dizzy steep 
Hung o'er the margin of the deep. 
Blany a rude tower and rampart there 
Repell'd the insult of the air, 
Which, when the tempest vex'd the sky, 
Half breeze, half spray, came whistling' by. 
Above the rest, a turret square 
Did o'er its Gothic entrance bear, 
Of sculpture rude, a stony shield ; 
The Bloody Heart was in the Field, 
And in the chief three mullets stood. 
The cognizance of Douglas blood 
The turret held a narrow stair, 



"Fl" 




Which, mounted, gave you access where 

A parapet's embattled row 

Did seaward round the castle go. 

Sometimes in dizzy steps descending. 

Sometimes in narrow circuit bending, 

Sometimes in platform broad extending, 

Its varying circle did combine 

Bulwark, and bartizan, and line, 

And bastion, tower, and vantage-soi,i-n; 

Above the booming ocean leant 

The far-projecting battlemsnt; 

The billows burst, in ceaseless flow, 

Upon the precipice below. 

Where'er Tantallon faced the land. 

Gate-works, and walls, were strongly 

mann'd ; 
No need upon the sea-girt side ; 
The steepy rock, and frantic tide, 
Approach of human step denied ; 
And thus these lines and ramparts rude. 
Were left in deepest solitude. 

in. 

And, for they were so lonely, Clare 
Would to these battlements repair. 
And muse upon her sorrows there. 

And list the sea-bird's cry ; 
Or slow, like noontide ghost, would glide, 
Along the dark-gray bulwarks' side, 
And ever on the heaving tide 
Look down with weary eye. 
Oft did the cliff and swelling main. 

Recall the thouglits of Whitby's fane, 

A home she ne'er might see s.gain ; 

For she had laid adown, 
So Douglas bade, the hood and veil, 
And frontlet of the cloister pale. 

And Benedictine gown : 
It were unseemly sight, he said, 
A novice out of covivent shade. — . 
Now her bright locks, with sunny glow, 
Again adorn'd her brow of snow ; 
Her mantle rich, whose borders, round, 
A deep and fretted broidery bound. 
In golden foldings sought the ground ; 
Of holy ornament, alone 
Remain'd a cross with ruby stone ; 

And often did she look 
On that which in her hand she bore. 
With velvet bound, and broider'd o'er, 

Her breviary book. 
In such a place, so lone, so grim. 
At dawning pale, or twilight dim, 

It fearful would have been 
To meet !* form so richly dress'd. 
With book m hand, and cross on breast, 
.ind 'iuch a woeful mien. 





(■ 1 ? 



96 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Fitz-Eustace, loitering with his be .v, 
To-practise on the gull and crow, 
Saw her, at distance, gliding slow, 

And did by Mary swear, — 
Some love-lorn Fay she might have been. 
Or, in Romance, some spell-bound Queen ; 
For ne'er, in work-day world, was seen 

;\. form so witching fair 



Once walking thus, at evening tide, 
It chanced a gliding sail she spied, 
And, sighing, thought — " The Abbess 

there, 
Perchance, does to her home repair ; 
Her peaceful rule, where Duty, free, 
Walks hand in hand with Charity ; 
Where oft Devotion's tranced glow 
Can such a glimpse of heaven bestow. 
That the enraptured sisters see 
High vision and deep mystery; 
The very form of Hilda fair, 
Hovering upon the sunny air. 
And smiling on her votaries' prayer. 
O ! wherefore, to my duller eye, 
Did still the Saint her form deny ; 
Was it, that, sear'd by sinful scorn. 
My heart could neither melt nor burn ? 
Or lie my warm affections low, 
With him, that taught them first to glow ? 
Yet gentle Abbess, well 1 knew. 
To pay thy kindness grateful due. 
And well could brook the mihi command, 
That ruled thy simple maiden band. 
How different now ! condemn'd to bide 
My doom from this dark tyrant's pride. ^ 
But Marmion has to learn, ere long, 
That constant mind, and hate of wrong. 
Descended to a feeble girl. 
From Red De Clare, stout Gloster's Earl : 
Of such a stem, a sapling weak. 
He ne'er shall bend, although he break. 



" But see ! what makes this armor 

here .' " — 
For in her path there lay 
Targe, corslet, helm; — she view'd them 

near. — 
" The breast-plate pierced ! — Ay, much I 

fear, 
Weak fence wert thou 'gainst foeman's 

spear. 
That hath marlp fatal entrance here. 

As these dark blood-gouts say. — 
Thus Wilton ! — Oh I not corslet's ward, 



Nottruth, as diamond pure and hard, 
Could be thy manly bosom's guard, 

On yon disastrous day 1 '' — 
She raised her eyes in mournful mood,-- 
Wilton himself before her stood ! 
It might have seem'd his passing ghost, 
For every youthful grace was lost ; 
And joy unwonted, and surprise. 
Gave their strange wildness to his eyes,— 
Expect not, noble dames and lords, 
That I can tell such scene in words : 
What skilful limner e'er would choose 
To paint the rainbow's varying hues. 
Unless to mortal it were given 
To dip his brush in dyes of heaven ? 
Far less can my weak line declare 

Each changing passion's shade ; 
Brightening to rapture from despair, 
Sorrow, surprise, and pity there, 
And joy, with her angehc air, 
A nd hope that paints the future fair. 

Their varying hues display'd : 
Each o'er its rival's ground extending, 
Alternate conquering, shifting, blending, 
Till all, fatigued, the conflict yield. 
And mighty Love retains the field. 
Shortly I tell what then he said, 
By many a tender word delay'd, 
.\nd modest blush, and bursting sigh, 
And question kind, and fond reply : — 

VI. 

DE Wilton's history. 

" Forget we that disastrous day, 
Wlien senseless in the lists I lay. 

Thence dragg'd, — but how I cannot 
know. 
For sense and recollection fled, — 

I found me on a pallet low, 

Within my ancient beadsman's shed. 

Austin,- — remember'st thou, my Clare, 
How thou didst blush, when the old man. 
When first our infant love began. 

Said we would make a matchless pair ?— 
Menials, and friends, and kinsmen flecl 
?"rom the degraded traitor's bed, — 
He only held my burning head. 
And tended me for many a day, 
While wounds and fever held their sway 
But far more needful was his care, 
When sense return'd to wake despair : 

For I did tear the closing wound. 

And dash me frantic on the ground, 
If e'er I heard the name of Clare 
At length, to calmer reason brought, 
Much by his kind attendance wrought. 







1 




xrTlH '. 


i !-^l h. 






f 


)^ — ^ « F^ 

MARMION. 97 




L 


With him I left my native strand, 


(0 then my helmed head he knew, 




And, in a palmer's weeds array'd, 


The Palmer's cowl wa.s gone,) 






(j My hated name and form to shade, 


Then had three inches of my blade 






1 jijurney'd many a land ; 


The heavy debt of vengeance paid, — 


■* 




No more a lord of rank and birth, • 


My hand the thought of Austin staid j— 






But mingled with the dregs of earth. 


I left him there alone. — 






Oft Austin for my reason fear'd, 


good old man ! even from the grave 






When I would sit and deeply brood 


Thy spirit could thy master save: 






On dark revenge, and deeds of blood. 


If 1 had slain my foeman. ne'er 






Or wild mad schemes uprear'd. 


Had Whitby's Abbess, in her fear. 






My friend at length fell sick, and said, 


Given to my hand this packet dear, 






God would remove him soon : 


Of power to clear my injured fame, 






And, while upon his dying bed, 


And vindicate De Wilton's name. — 






He begg'd of me a boon — 


Perchance you heard the Abbess tell 






If e'er my deadliest enemy 


Of the strange pageantry of Hell, 






Beneath my brand should conquer'd lie, 


That broke our secret speech — 






Even then my mercy should awake. 


It rose from the infernal shade. 






And spare his life for Austin's sake. 


Or featly was some juggle play'd, 
A tale of peace to teach. 






VII, 

* 


Appeal to Heaven I judged was best, 






" Still restless as a second Cain, 


When my name came among the rest. 






To Scotland next my route was ta'en. 








Full well the paths 1 knew. 


IX. 






Fame of my fate made various sound, 


" Now here, within Tantallon Hold, 






That death in pilgrimage 1 found. 


To Douglas late my tale 1 told, 






That I had perish'd of my wound. 


To whom my house was known of old. 






None cared which tale was true ; 


Won by my proofs, his falchion bright 






And living eye could never guess 


This eve anew shall dub me knight. 






De Wilton in his Palmer's dress ; 


These were the arms that once did turn 






For now that sable slough is shed, 


The tide of fight on Otterbourne, 






And trimm'd my shaggy beard and head. 


And Harry Hotspur forced to yield. 






I scarcely know me in the glass. 


When the Dead Douglas won the field.* 






A chance most wondrous did provide. 


These Angus gave — his armorer's care. 






That I should be that Baron's guide — 


Ere morn shall every breach repair ; 






I will not name his name !— 


For nought, he said, was in his halls. 






Vengeance to God alone belongs ; 


But ancient armor on the walls. 






But, when I think of all my wrongs, 


And aged chargeis in the stalls. 






My blood is liquid flame ! 


And women, priests, and gray-hair'd men ; 






And ne'er the time shall I forget, 


The rest were all in Twisel glen.f 






When, in a Scottish hostel set, 


And now I watch my armor here. 






Dark looks we did exchange : 


By law of arms, till midnight's near ; 






What were his thoughts I cannot tell ; 


Then, once again a belted knight. 






But in my bosom muster'd Hell 


Seek Surrey's camp with dawn of light, 






Its plans of dark revenge. 


X. 






VIII. 


" There soon again we meet, my Clare I 






" A word of vulgar augury. 


This Baron means to guide thee there : 






That broke from me, 1 scarce knew why. 


Douglas reveres his King's command, 






Brought on a village tale ; 


Else would he take thee from his band. 






Which wrought upon his moody sprite, 


And there thy kmsman, Surrey, too, 






And sent him armed forth by night. 


Will give De Wilton justice due. 






. I borrow'd steed and mail, 


Now meeter far for martial broil. 






n And weapons, from his sleeping band ; 

And, passing from a postern door, 
We met, and 'counter'd hand to hand, — 

He fell on Gifford moor. 
For the death-stroke my brand I drew. 


Firmer my limbs, and strung by toil, 






* See the ballad of Otterbourne, in the 
" Border Minstrelsy," vol. i. p, 345. 

t Where James encamped before taking post 
on Flodden. 






T\ 


r 1 


c — \-2> f v>; 






xi — 


c— 1 


i=ri 


_ ^ 


1 




98 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Once more " — "' O Wilton ! must we then 
Risk new-found happiness again, 

Trust fate of arms once more .■' 
And is there not an humble glen, 

Where we, content and poor. 
Might build a cottage in the shade, 
A shepherd thou, and 1 to aid 

Thy task on dale and moor ? — 
That reddening brow I — too well I know, 
Not even thy Clare can peace bestow, 

While falsehood stains thy name ; 
Go then to fight ! Clare bids thee go ! 
Clare can a warrior's feelings know, 

And weep a warrior's shame ; 
Can Red Earl Gilbert's spirit feel, 
BucKle the spurs upon thy heel. 
And belt thee with thy brand of steel, 

And send thee forth to fame ! '' 

XI. 

That night, upon the rocks and bay, 
The midnight moon-beam slumbering lay, 
And pour'd its silver light, and pure, 
Through loop-hole, and through embrazure. 

Upon Tantallon tower and hall ; 
But chief where arched windows wide 
Illuminate the chapel's pride. 

The sober glances fall. 
Much was their need ; though seam'd with 

scars. 
To veterans of the Douglas' wars. 

Though two gray priests were there. 
And each a blazing torch held high. 
You could not by their blaze descry 

The chapel's carving fair. 
Amid that dim and smoky light. 
Chequering the silver moon-shine bright, 

A bishop by the altar stood,* 

A noble lord of Douglas blood, 
With mitre sheen, and rocquet white. 
Yet show'd Ills meek and thoughtful eye 
But little pride of prelacy ; 
More pleased that, in a barbarous age, 
He gave rude Scotland Virgil's page. 
Than that beneath his rule he held 
The bishopric of fair Dunkeld. 
Beside hun ancient Angus stood, 
Doff'd his fur'd gown and sable hood : 
O'er his huge form and visage pale, 
He wore a cap and shirt of mail ; 



* The well-known Gawain Douglas, Bishop 
of Dunkeld, son of Archibald Bell-tlie-Cat, 
Earl of Angus. He was author of a Scottish 
metrical version of the /Eneid, and of many 
other poetical pieces of great merit. He had 
not at this period attained the mitre - 



And lean'd his large and wrinkled hand 
Upon the huge and sweeping brand 
Which wont of yore, in battle fray. 
His foeman's limbs to shred away. 
As wood-knife lops the sapling spray. ^^ 

He seem'd as, from the tombs around 
Rising at judgment-day. 

Some giant Douglas may be found 
In all his old array ; 
So pale his face, so huge his limb. 
So old his arms, his look so grim. 

XII. 

Then at the altar Wilton kneels, 
And Clare the spurs bound on his heels > 
And think what next he must have felt. 
At buckling of the falchion belt ! 

And judge how Clara changed her hue, 
While fastening to her lovers side 
A friend, which, though in danger tried. 

He once had found untrue ! 
Then Douglas struck him with his blade : 
" Saint Michael and Saint Andrew aid, 

I dub thee knight. 
Arise, Sir Ralph, De Wilton's heir 1 
For King, for Church, for Lady fair. 

See that thou fight." — 
And Bishop Gawain, as he rose. 
Said — " Wilton ! grieve not for thy woes, 

Disgrace, and trouble ; 
For He, who honor best bestows, 

May give thee double." 
De Wilton sobb'd, for sob he must — ■ 
" Where'er I meet a Douglas^ trust 

That Douglas is my brother! '' — 
" Nay, nay," old Angus said, " not so ; 
To Surrey's camp thou now must go. 
Thy wrongs no longer smother. 
I have two sons in yonder field ; 
And, if thou meet'st them under shield, 
Upon them bravely — do thy worst ; 
And foul fall him that blenches first ! " 



Not far advanced was morning day. 
When Marmion did his troop array 

To Surrey's camp to ride ; 
He had safe conduct for his band, 
Beneath the royal seal and hand. 

And Douglas gave a guide : 
The ancient Earl, with stately grace, 
Would Clara on her palfrey place, 
And whisper'd in an imder tone, 
" Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown."- 
The train from out the castle drew. 
But Marmion stopp'd to bid adieu : — 






■ Lord Angus, thou hast lied ! " 



Page 99. 




M ARM ION. 



99 



"Though something I might plain," he 

said, 
« Of cold respect to stranger guest, 
Sent hither by your King's behest, 

While in Tantallon's towers I staid ; 
Part we in friendship from your land. 
And, noble Earl, receive my hand." — 
But Douglas round him drew his cloak. 
Folded his arms, and thus he spoke : — ^ 
" My manors, halls, and bowers, shall still 
Be open, at my Sovereign's will, 
To each one whom he lists, howe'er 
Unmeet to be the owner's peer. 
My castles are my King's alone, 
From turret to foundation-stone — 
The hand of Douglas is his own ; 
And never shall in friendly grasp . 
The hand of such as Marmion clasp."— 

XIV. 

Burn'd Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire, 
And shook his very frame for ire. 

And—" This to me !" he said, — 
" An 'twere not for thy hoary beard, 
Such hand as Marmion's had not spared 

To cleave the Douglas' head ! 
And, first, I tell thee, haughty Peer, 
He, who does England's message here. 
Although the meanest in her state, 
May well, proud Angus, be thy mate : 
And, Douglas, more I tell thee here. 

Even in thy pitch of pride, 
Here in thy hold, thy vassals near, 
(Nay, never look upon your lord, 
And lay your hands upon your sword,) 

I tell thee thou'rt defied ! 
And if thou said'st I am not peer 
To any lord in Scotland here, 
Lowland or Highland, far or near, 

Lord Angus, thou hast lied ! " 
On the Earl's cheek the flush of rage 
O'ercame the ashen hue of age : 
Fierce he broke forth,—" And darest thou, 

then, 
To beard the lion in his den. 

The Douglas in his hall ? 
And hopest thou hence unscathed to go ? — 
No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no ! 
Up drawbridge, grooms — what. Warder, 
ho! 

Let the portcullis fall." ''^ 
Lord Marmion turn'd, — well was his need, 
And dash'd the rowels in his steed, 
Like arrow through the archway sprung. 
The ponderous grate behind him rung : 
To pass there was such scanty room. 
The bars, descending, razed his plume. 



The st'ied along the drawbridge flies. 

Just as it trembled on the rise ; 

Nor lighter does the swallow skim 

Along the smooth lake's level brim : 

And when Lord Marmion reach'd his band. 

He halts, and turn'd with clench'd hand, 

And shout of loud defiance pours. 

And shook his gauntlet at the towers. 

" Horse ! horse ! " the Douglas cried, " and 

chase ! " 
But soon he rein'd his fury's pace : 
" A royal messenger he came. 
Though most unv^forthy of the name. — 
A letter forged ! Saint Jude to speed ! 
Did ever knight so foul a deed ! ''^ 
At first in heart it liked me ill, 
When the King praised his clerkly skill. 
Thanks to Saint Bothan, son of mine, 
Save Gawain, ne'er could pen a line. 
So swore I, and I swear it still. 
Let my boy-bishop fret his fill. — 
Saint Mary mend my fiery mood ! 
Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood, 
I thought to slay him where he stood. 
'Tis pity of him too," he cried: 
" Bold can he speak, and fairly ride. 
I warrant him a warrior tried." 
With this his mandate he recalls, 
And slowly seeks his castle halls. 

XVI. 

The day in Marmion's journey wore ; 
Yet, ere his passion's gust was o'er. 
They cross'd the heights of Stanrig-moor. 
His troop more closely there he scann'd, 
And miss'd the Palmer from the band. — 
" Palmer or not," young Blount did say, 
" He parted at the peep of day ; 
Good sooth, it was in strange array.'' 
" In what array? " said Marmion quick. 
" My lord, I ill can spell the trick ; 
But all night long, with clink and bang, 
Close to my couch did hammers clang? 
At dawn the falling drawbridge rang, 
And from a loop-hole while 1 peep. 
Old Bell-the-Cat came from the Keep, 
Wrapp'd in a gown of sables fair, 
As fearful of the morning air ; 
Beneath, when that was blown aside, 
A rusty shirt of mail I spied, 
By Archibald won in bloody work, 
Against the Saracen and Turk : 
Last night it hung not in the hall ; 
I thought some marvel would befall. 
And next I saw them saddled lead 
Old Cheviot forth, the Earl's best steed; 








SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



h. matchless horse, though something old, 

Prompt in his paces, cool and bold. 

I heard the Sheriff Sholto say, 

The Earl did much the Master * pray 

To use him on the battle-day ; 

But he preferr'd — " " Nay, Henry, cease ! 

Thou sworn horse-courser, hold thy 

peace. — 
Eustace, thou bear'st a brain — I pray 
What did Blount see at break of day ? " — 

XVII. 

' In brief, my lord, we both descried 
.For then I stood by Henry's side) 
The Palmer mount, and outwards ride. 

Upon the Earl's own favorite steed : 
All sheathed he was in armor bright, 
\nd much resembled that same knight, 
Subdued by you in Cotswold fight : 

Lord Angus wish'd him speed." — 
The instant that Fitz-Eustace spoke, 
A sudden light on Marmion broke ; — 
" Ah ! dastard fool, to reason lost ! " 
He mutter'd ; " 'Twas nor fay nor ghost 
I met upon the moonlight wold. 
But living man of earthly mould. — 

O dotage blind and gross ! 
Had I but fought as wont, one thrust 
Had laid De Wilton in the dust, 

IMy path no more to cross. — 
How stand we now ? — he told his tale 
To Douglas ; and with some avail ; 

'Twas therefore gloom'd his rugged 
brow. — 
Will Surrey dare to entertain, 
'Gainst Marmion, charge disproved and 
vain .'' 

Small risk of that, I trow. 
Yet Clare's sharp questions must I shun ; 
Must separate Constance from the Nun — 
0, what a tangled web we weave. 
When first we practise to deceive ! 
h. Palmer too ! — no wonder why 
I felt rebuked beneath his eye : 
I might have known there was but one 
Whose look could quell Lord Marmion.'" 

xviii. 
Stang with these thoughts, he urged to 

speed 
His troop, and reach'd at eve, the Tweed, 
Where Lennel's convert closed their march. 
(There now is left but one frail arch ; 

Yet mourn thou not its cells ; 
Our time a fair exchange has made ; 



* His eldest son, the Master of Angus. 



Hard by, in hospitable shade, 

A reverend pilgrim dwells, 
Well worth the whole Bernardine brood, 
That e'er wore sandal, frock, or hood.) 
Yet did Saint Bernard's Abbot there 
Give Marmion entertainment fair, 
And lodging for his train and Clare. 
Next morn the Baron climb'd the tower, 
To view afar the Scottish power, 

Encamp'd on Flodden edge : 
The white pavilions made a show, 
Like remnants of the winter snow, 

.Along the dusky ridge. 
Lord Marmion look'd : — at length his eye 
Unusual movement might descry 

Amid the shifting lines : 
The Scottish host drawn out appears, 
For, flashing on the hedge of spears 

The eastern sunbeams shines. 
Their front row deepening, now extend- 

Their flank inclining, wheeling, bending, 
Now drawing back, and now descending, 
The skilful Marmion well could know. 
They watch'd the motions of some foe, 
Who traversed on the plain below. 



Even so it was. From Flodden ridge 

The Scots beheld the English host 

Leave Barmore-wood, their evening post. 

And heedful watch'd them as they cross'd 
The Till by Twisel Bridge. "^ 

High sight it is, and haughty, while 
They dive into the deep defile ; 

Beneath the cavern'd cliff they fall, 

Beneath the castle's airy wall. 
By rock, by oak, by hawthorn-tree. 

Troop after troop are disappearing ; 

Troop after troop their banners rearing, 
Upon the eastern bank you see. 
Still pouring down the rocky den. 

Where flows the sullen Till, 
And rising from the dim-wood glen. 
Standards on standards, men on men. 

In slow succession still. 
And, sweeping o'er the Gothic arch, 
And pressing on. in ceaseless march, 

To gain the opposing hill. 
That morn, to many a trumpet clang, 
Twisel ! thy rock's deep echo rang ; 
.And many a chief of birth and rank ; 
Saint Helen 1 at thy fountain drank. 
Thy hawthorn glade, which now we see 
In spring-tide bloom so lavishly, 







1 




/ 


^ 


c 1 


,. '■ — - -H"! Tr^ 






~N *~ 


I. \ .) 


^- 1— r- 


/•> 




LJX 




XL 


\ 








MARMION. ^on 






Had then from many an axe its doom, 


XXII. 






To give the marching columns room. 


Himself he swift on horseback threw, 






^ 


xx« 


Scarce to the Abbot bade adieu ; ^ 


J 




' 




Far less would listen to his prayer, * 






And why stands Scotland idly now, 


To leave behind the helpless Clare. 






Dark Flodden ! on thy airy brow, 


Down to the Tweed his band he drew, 






Since England ga-ns the pass the while, 


And mutter'd as the flood they view^ 






And struggles through the deep defile? 


" The pheasant in the falcon's claw, 






What checks the fiery soul of James ? 


He scarce will yield to please a daw 






Why sits that champion of the dames 


Lord Angus may the Abbot awe, 






Inactive on his steed, 


So Clare shall bide with me." 






And sees between him and his land, 


Then on that dangerous ford, and deep, 






Between him and Tweed's southern strand, 


Where to the Tweed Leafs eddies creep, 






His host Lord Surrey lead? 


He ventured desperately : 






What 'vails the vain knight-errant's brand ? 


And not a moment will he bide, 






— 0, Douglas, for thy leading wand 1 


Till squire, or groom, before him ride ; 






Fierce Randolph, for thy speed ! 


Headmost of all he stems the tide ; 






for one hour of Wallace wight. 


And stems it gallantly. 






Or well-skilPd Bruce to rule the fight, 


Eustace held Clare upon her horse, 






And cry — " Saint Andrew and our right ! " 


Old Hubert led her rein. 






Another sight had seen that morn, 


Stoutly they braved the current's course, 






From Fate's dark book a leaf been torn. 


And, though far downward driven per force 






And Flodden had been Bannockbourne ! — 


The southern bank they gain ; 






The precious hour has pass'd in vain, 


Behind them straggling, came to shore, 






And England's host has gain'd the plain ; 


As best they might, the train : 






Wheeling their march, and circling still, 


Each o'er his head his yew-bow bore, 






Around the base of Flodden hill. 


A caution not in vain ; 
Deep need that day that every string, 






XXI. 


By wet unharm'd, should sharply ring. 
A moment then Lord Marmion staid. 






Ere yef the bands met Marmion's eye. 


And breathed his steed, his men array'd, 






Fitz-Eustace shouted loud and high. 


Then forward moved his band. 






" Hark ! hark ! my lord, an English drum ! 


Until, Lord Surrey's rear-guard won. 






And see ascending squadrons come 


He halted by a Cross of Stone, 






Between Tweed's river and the hill, 


That, on a hillock standing lone, 






Foot, horse, and cannon : — hap what hap, 


Did all the field command. 






My basnet to a prentice cap, 








Lord Surrey's o'er the Till ! 


XXIII. 






Yet more ! yet more ! — how far array'cl 








They file from out the hawthorn shade. 


Hence might they see the full array 






And sweep so gallant by : 


Of either host, for deadly fray ; "^ 






With all their banners bravely spread, 


Their marshall'd lines stretch'd east and 






And all their armor flashing high. 


west. 






St. George might waken from the dead. 


And fronted north and south. 






To see fair England's standards fly." — 


And distant salutation pass'd 






"Stint in thy prate," quoth Blounr, 


From the loud cannon mouth ; 






" thou'dst best. 


Not in the close successive rattle, 






And listen to our lord's behest." — 


That breathes the voice of modern battle. 






With kindling brow Lord Marmion said, — 


But slow and far between. — 






" This instant be our band arrayed ; 


The hillock gain'd. Lord Marmion staid: 






The river must be quickly cross'd, 


" Here by this Cross," he gently said. 






,1 


Tliat we may join Lord Surrey's host. 
' If fight King James, — as well I trust. 
That fight he will, and fight he must, — 
The Lady Clare behind our lines 
Shall tarry, while the battle joins." 


" You well may view the scene. 
Here shalt thou tarry, lovely Clare : "] f 
! think of Marmion in thy prayer ! — 
Thou wilt not ? — well, — no less my care 
Shall, watchful, for thy weal prepare.— 








3 




1 1 




'^ 


^JJ(^ s 


' 1— i 


^jy 








SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



You, Blount and Eustace, are her guard. 

With ten pick'd archers of my train ; 
With England if the day go hard, 

To Berwick speed amain. — 
But if we conquer, cruel maid. 
My spoils shall at your feet be laid, 

When here we meet again." 
He waited not for answer there, 
And would not mark the maid's despair, 

Nor heed the discontented look 
From either squire ; but spurr'd amain, 
And, dashing through the battle plain, 

His way to Surrey took. 



" The good Lord Marmion, by my life ! 

Welcome to danger's hour ! 
Short greeting serves in time of strife ! 

Thus have I ranged my power : — 
Myself will rule this central host, 

Stout Stanley fronts their right, 
My sons command the vaward post. 

With Brian Tunstall, stainless knight,"" 

Lord Dacre, with his horsemen light. 

Shall be in rear-ward of the fight. 
And succor those that need it most. 

Now, gallant Marmion, well I know. 

Would gladly to the vanguard go ; 
Edmund, the Admiral, Tunstall there, 
With thee their charge will blithely share ; 
There fight thine own retainers too. 
Beneath De Burg, thy steward true." 
" Thanks, noble Surrey ! " Marmion said. 
Nor farther greeting there he paid ; 
But, parting like a thunderbolt, 
First in the vanguard made a halt, 

Where such a shout there rose 
Of " Marmion ! Marmion I " that the cry. 
Up Flodden mountains shrilling high, 

Startled the Scottish foes. 



Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still 
With Lady Clare upon the hill ! 
On which (for far the day was spent) 
The western sunbeams now were bent. 
The cry they heard, its meaning knew. 
Could plain their distant comrades view ; 
Sadly to Blount did Eustace say, 
" Unworthy ofifice here to stay ! 
No hope of gilded spurs to-day. — 
But see! look up — on Flodden bent 
The Scottish foe has fired his tent." 

And sudden, as he spoke. 
From the sharp ridges of the hill. 
All downward to the banks of Till, 



Was wreathed in sable smoke. 
Volumed and fast, and rolling far. 
The cloud enveloped Scotland's war. 

As down the hill they broke ; 
Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone, 
Announced their march ; their tread alone, 
At times one warning trumpet blown. 

At times a stifled hum. 
Told England, from his mountain-throne 

King James did rushing come. — 
Scarce could they hear or see their foes. 

Until at weapon-point they close. — 
They close, in clouds of smoke and dust, 
With sword-sway, and with lance's thrust ; 

And such a yell was there, 
Of sudden and portentous birth. 
As if men fought upon the earth. 
And fiends in upper air ; 
O life and death were in the shout, 
Recoil and rally, charge and rout, 

And triumph and despair. 
Long look'd the anxious squires ; their eye 
Could in the darkness nought descry. 



At length the freshening western blast 
Aside the shroud of battle cast ; 
And, first, the ridge of mingled spears 
Above the brightening cloud appears; 
And in the smoke the pennons htw, 
As in the storm the white sea-mew. 
Then mark'd they, dashing broad and far, 
The broken billows of the war. 
And plumed crests of chieftains brave. 
Floating like foam upon the wave; 

But nought distinct they see: 
Wide raged the battle on the plain; 
Spears shook, and falchions flash'd amain. 
Fell England's arrow-flight like rain ; 
Crests rose, and stoop'd, and rose again. 

Wild and disorderly. 
Amid the scene of tumult, high 
They saw Lord Marmion's falcon fly : 
And stainless Tunstall's banner white, 
And Edmund Howard's lion bright, 
Still bare them bravely in the fight. 

Although against them come, 
Of gallant Gordons many a one. 
And many a stubborn Highlandman, 
And many a rugged Border clan. 

With Huntly, and with Home. 

XXVII. 

Far on the left, unseen the while, 
.Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle ; 
Though there the western mountaineer 
Kush'd with bare bosom on the spear. 






MARHtiON. 



103 



•Vnd flung the feeble targe aside, 
And with both hands the broadsword plied. 
'Twas vain : — But Fortune, on the right, 
With fickle smile, cheer'd Scotland's fight. 
Then fell that spotless banner white, 

The Howard's lion fell ; 
V^et still Lord IVIarmion's falcon flew 
With wavering flight, while fiercer grew 

Around the battle-yell. 
The Border slogan rent the sky ! 
A Home ! a Gordon ! was the cry : 

Loud were the clanging blows ; 
Advanced, — forced back, — now low, now 
high, 

The pennon sunk and rose ; 
As bends the bark's mast in the gale. 
When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail. 

It waver'd 'mid the foes. 
No longer Blount the view could bear : 
" By Heaven, and all its saints ! I swear 

I will not see it lost ! 
Fitz-Eustace, you with Lady Clare 
May bid your beads, and patter prayer, — 

1 gallop to the host." 
And to the fray he rode amain, 
Follow'd by all the archer train. 
The fiery youth, with desperate charge. 
Made, for a space, an opening large, — 

The rescued banner rose, — 
But darkly closed the war around, 
Like pine-tree, rooted from the ground, 

It sunk among the foes. 
Then Eustace mounted too : — yet staid 
As loath to leave the helpless maid. 

When, fast as shaft can fly. 
Blood-shot his eyes, his nostrils spread. 
The loose rein dangling from his head. 
Housing and saddle bloody red. 

Lord Marmion's steed rush'd by ; 
And Eustace, maddening at the sight, 

A look and sign to Clara cast 

To mark he would return in haste, 
Then plunged into the fight. 



.^sk rne not what the maiden feels, 
Left in that dreadful hour alone : 

Perchance her reason stoops, or reels ; 
Perchance a courage, not her own, 
Braces her mind to desperate tone. — 

The scatter'd van of England wheels : — 
She only said, as loud in air 
The tumult roar'd, " Is Wilton there*"' 
They fly, or, madden'd bv despair, 
Fight but to die,—" Is Wilton there ? " 

With that, straight up the hill there rode 



Two horsemen drench'd with gore, 
.•\nd in their arms, a helpless load, 

A wounded knight they bore. 
His hand srill strain'd the broken brand ; 
His arms ^fere smear'd with blood and 

sand. 
Dragg'd from among the horses' feet, 
Withdinted shield, and helmet beat. 
The fakon-cvest and plumage gone. 
Can that be haughty Marmion ! . . . 
Young Blount his armor did unlace. 
And, gazing on his ghastly face. 

Said—" By St<int George, he's gone? 
That spear-wound has our master sped, 
And see the deep cut on his head ! 

Good-night to Marmion." — 
" Unnurtured Blount ! thy brawling cease .^^ 
He opes his eyes," said Eustace ; " peace 1" 



When, doff'd his casque, he felt free air. 

Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare : — 

" Where's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace 

where ' 
Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare ! 
Redeem my pennon, — charge again ! 
Cry — ' Marmion to the rescue ! ' — Vain ! 
Last of my race, on battle-plain 
That shout shall ne'er be heard again ! 
Yet my last thought is England's— fly, 
To Dacre bear my signet-ring : 
Tell him his squadrons up to bring.— 
Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie ; 
Tunstall lies dead upon the field, 
His life-blood stains the spotless shields 
Edmund is down : — my life is reft; 
The Admiral alone ij left. 
Let Stanley charge with spur of fire,— 
With Chester charge, and Lancashire, 
Full upon Scotland's central host. 
Or victory and England's lost. — 
Must I bid twice ? — hence, varlets ! fly! 
Leave Marmion here alone — to die.'' 
They parted, and alone he lay ; 
Clare drew her from the sight away, 
Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan, 
And half he murmur'd, — " Is there none 

Of all my halls have nurst. 
Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring 
Of blessed water from the spring. 
To slake my dying thirst ! " 

XXX. 

O, Woman ! in our hours of ease. 
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please. 
And variable as the shade 
By the light quivering aspen made ; 






I04 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



When pain and anguish wring the brow, 
A ministering angel thou ! — 
Scarce were the piteous accents said, 
When, with the Baron's casque, the maid 

To the nigli streamlet ran . 
Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears ; 
The plaintive voice alone she hears, 

Sees but the dying man. 
She stoop'd her by the runnel's side. 

But in abhorrence backward drew ; 
For, oozing from the mountain's side, 
Where raged the war, a dark-red tide 

Was curdling in the streamlet blue. 
Where sliall she turn ? — behold her mark 

A little fountain cell, 
Where water, clear as diamond-spark, 

]n a stone basin fell. 
Above, some half-worn letters say, 
Jlrinfj. UH-iui). |)iUuim. &riuk. uiiS. ;iraij. 
£isx. tl)c. kin&. soul. of. ^pbil. (Crcp. 

Wl)0- luiilt. this, cross. anS. lucU. 
She fill'd the helm, and back she hied, 
And with surprise and joy espied 

A monk su]3porting Marmion's head : 
A pious man, whom duty brought 
To dubious verge of battle fought, 

To shrieve the dying, bless the dead. 



Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave. 
And, as she stoop'd his brow to lave — 
" Is it the hand of Clare," he said, 
" Or injured Constance, bathes my head ?'' 

Then, as remembrance rose, — 
" Speak not to me of shrift or prayer ! 

I must redress her woes. 
Short space, few words, are mine to spare : 
Forgive and listen, gentle Clare ! " — 
" Alas ! '' she said, " the while, — 
O, think of your immortal weal ! 
In vain for Constance is your zer.l ; 

She died at Holy Isle."— 

Lord Marmion started from the ground. 
As light as if he felt no wound ; 
Though in the action burst the tide, 
In torrents, from his wounded side. 
•' Then it was truth," — he said — " 1 knew 
That the dark presage must be true. — 
I would the Fiend, to whom belongs 
The vengeance due to all her wrongs. 

Would spare me but a day! 
For wasting fire, and dying groan. 
And priests slain on the altar-stone, 

Might bribe liim for delay. 
It may not be ! — this dizzy trance- 
Curse on yon b.isa marauder's lance. 




And doubly cursed my failing brand ! 
A sinful heart makes feeble hand.'' 
Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk, 
Supported by the trembling Monk. 



With fruitless labor, Clara bound. 

And strove to stanch the gushing wound, 

The Monk, with unavailing cares, 

Exhausted all the Church's prayers. 

Ever, he said, that, close and near, 

k. lady's voice was in his ear. 

And that the priest he could not hear, 

For that she ever sung, 
" In the lost battle, borne dawn by the flying. 
Where mingles war''s rattle with groanr 
of the dying.' " 

So the notes rung : — 
" Avoid thee. Fiend ! — with cruel hand. 
Shake not the dying sinner's sand ! — 
O, look, my son, upon yon sign 
Of the Redeemer's grace divine ; 

O, think on faith and bliss ! — 
By many a death-bed I have been. 
And many a sinner's parting seen, 

But never aught like this." — 
The war, that for a space did fail. 
Now trebly thundering swell'd the gale, 

And — Stanley ! was the cry ; 
A light on Marmion's visage spread 

And fired his glazing eye ; 
With dying hand, above his head. 
He shook the fragment of his blade, 

.\nd shouted '' Victory ! — 
Charge, Chester, charge ! On, Stanley, on I 
Were the last words of Marmion. 



By this, though deep the evening fell, 
Still rose the battle's deadly swell. 
For still the Scots, around their King, 
Unbroken, fought in desperate ring. 
Where's now their victor vaward wing. 

Where Huntly, and where Home!'— 
O, for a blast of that dread horn, 
On Fontarabian echoes borne. 

That to king Charles did come. 
When Rowland brave, and Olivier, 
And every paladin and peer. 

On Roncesvalles died ! 
Such blast might warn them, not in vain. 
To ([uit the plunder of the slain. 
And turn the doubtful day again. 

While yet on Flodden side, 
Afar, the Royal Standard flies. 





RIARMION. 



105 



And round it toils, an:! bleeds, and dies, 

Our Caledonian pride 1 
In vain the wish — for far away, 
While spoil and havoc mark their way, 
Near Sybil's Cross the plunderers stray. — 
" O, Lady," cried the Monk, " away ! " 

And placed her on her steed. 
And led her to the chapel fair, 

Of Tillmouth upon Tweed. 
There all the night they spent in prayer, 
And at the dawn of morning, there 
She met her kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare. 

XXXIV. 

But as they left the dark'ning heath, 
More desperate grew the strife of death. 
The English shafts in volleys hail'd, 
In headlong charge their horse assail'd ; 
Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons sweep 
To break the Scottish circle deep, 

That fought around their King. 
But yet, though thick the shafts as snow, 
Though charging knights like whirlwinds 

go, 
Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow. 

Unbroken was the ring ; 
The stubborn spear-mcn still made good 
Their dark impenetrable wood, 
Each stepping where his comrade stood. 

The instant that he fell. 
No thought was there of dastard flight ; 
Link'd in the serried phalanx tight. 
Groom fought like noble, squire like knight. 

As fearlessly and well ; 
Till utter darkness closed her wing 
O'er their thin host and wounded King. 
Then skilful .Surrey's sage commands 
Led. back from strife his shatter'd bands , 
And from the charge they drew. 
As mountain-waves, from wasted lands. 

Sweep back to ocean blue. 
Then did their loss his foeman know ; 
Their King, their Lords, their mightiest 

low, 
They melted from the field as snow, 
When streams are swnln and south winds 
blow. 

Dissolves in silent dew. 
Tweed's eclioes heard the ceaseless plasn, 

While many a broken band, 
Disorder'd, through her CL-.rrents dash. 

To gain the Scottish land ; 
To town and tower, to down and dale. 
To tell red Flodden's dismal tale, 
And raise the universal wail. 
Tradition, legend, tune, and song. 
Shall many an age that wail prolong : 



Still from the sire the son shall hear 
Of the stern strife, and carnage dear, 

Of Flodden's fatal field. 
Where shiver'd was fair Scotland's spear, 

And broken was her shield ! 



Day dawns upon the mountain's side 1 — 
There, Scotland 1 lay thy bravest pride. 
Chiefs, knights, and nobles, many a one: 
The sad survivors all are gone — 
View not tiiat corpse mistrustfully, 
Defaced and mangled though it be ; 
Nor to yon Border Castle high. 
Look northward with upbraiding eye ; 

Nor cherish hope in vam. 
That journeying far on foreign strand, 
The Royal Pilgrim to his land 

May yet return again. 
He saw the wreck his rashness wrought ; 
Reckless of life, he desperate fought, 

And fell on Flodden plain ; 
And well in death his trusty brand, 
Firm clench'd within his manly hand, 

Beseem'd the monarch slain. "^ 
But, O ! how changed since yon blithe 

night !— 
Gladly I turn me from the sight, 

Unto mv tale again. 



Short is my tale: — Fitz-Eustace' care 
A pierced and mangled body bare 
To moated Lichfield's lofty pile ; 
.A.nd there, beneath the southern aisle, 
A tomb, with Gothic sculpture fair. 
Did long Lord Marmion's image bear, 
(Now vainly for its sight you look ; 
'Twas levell'd when fanatic Brook 
The fair cathedral storm'd and took ; '? 
But, thanks to Heaven and good Saint 

Chad, 
A guerdon meet tha spoiler had !) 
There erst was martial Marmion found 
His feet upon a couchant hound. 

His hands to heaven upraised ; 
.\nd all around, on scutcheon rich. 
And tablet carved, and fretted niche, 

His arms and feats were blazed. 
And yet, though all was carved so fair, 
.4nd priest for Marmion breathed the 

prayer. 
The last Lord Marmion lay not thei-e. 
From Ettrick woods a peasant swain 
Follow'd his lord to Flodden plain, — 
One of those flowers, whom plaintive lay 
In Scotland mourns as " wedc away:" 





^ 



ro6 



SCOTT'S PO Eric A L WORKS. 



Sore wounded, Sybil's Cross he spied, 
And dragg'd him to its foot, and died, 
Close by the noble Marmion's side. 
The spoilers stripp'd and gash'd the slain, 
And thus their corpses were mista'en ; 
And thus, in the proud Baron's tomb, 
The lowly woodsman took the room. 

XXXVII. 

Less easy task it were, to show 

Lord Marmion's nameless grave, and low. 

They dug his grave e'en where he lay, 
But every mark is gone ; 

Time's wasting hand has done away 

The simple cross of Sybil Grey, 
And broke her font of stone : 
But yet from out the little hill 
Oozes the slender springlet still. 

Oft halts the stranger there. 
For thence may best his curious eye 
The memorable field descry ■, 

And shepherd boys repair 
To seek the water-flag and rush. 
And rest them by the hazel bush, 

And plait their garlands fair; 
Nor dream they sit upon the grave. 
That holds the bones of Marmion brave. — 
When thou shalt find the httle hill. 
With thy heart commune, and be still 
If ever, in temptation strong, 
Thou left'st the right path for the wrong • 
If every devious step, thus trod. 
Still led thee farther from the road ; 
Dread thou to speak presumptuous doom 
On noble Marmion's lowly tomb ; 
But say, " He died a gallant knight. 
With sword in hand, for England's right." 



I do not rhyme to that dull elf, 
WIio cannot image to himself, 
That all through Flodden's dismal night, 
Wilton was foremost in the fight ; 
That, when brave Surrey's steed was slain, 
T was Wilton mounted him again ; 
'T was Wilton's brand that deepest hew'd, 
Amid the spearmen's stubborn wood ; 
Unnamed by Hullinshed or Hall, 
He was the living soul of all : 



That, after fight, his faith made plain, 

He won his rank and lands again ; 

And charged his old paternal shield 

With bearings won on Flodden field. 

Nor sing I to that simple maid, 

To whom it must in terms be said, 

That King and kinsmen did agree, 

To bless fair Clara's constancy ; 

Wiio cannot, unless I relate. 

Paint to her mind the bridal's state; 

That Wolsey's voice the blessing spoke, 

More, Sands, and Denny, pass'd the joke; 

That bluff King Hal the curtain drew. 

And Catherine's hand the stocking threw ; 

And afterwards, for many a day. 

That it was held enough to say. 

In blessing to a wedded pair, 

" Love they like Wilton and like Clare 1 " 



ENVOY. 



TO THE READER. 



Why then a final note prolong. 

Or lengtiien out a closing song, 

Unless to bid the gentles speed, 

Who long have listed to my rede ?* 

To Statesmen grave, if such may deign 

To read the Minstrel's idle strain, 

Sound head, clean hands, and piercing wit 

And patriotic heart — as Pitt ! 

A garland for the hero's crest. 

And twined by her he loves the best ; 

To every lovely lady bright. 

What can I wish but faithful knight ? 

To every faithful lover too. 

What can I wish but lady true ? 

.-\nd knowledge to the studious sage ; 

And pillow to the head of age. 

To thee, dear school-boy, whom my lay 

Has cheated of thy hour of play, 

Light task, and merry holiday I 

To all, to each, a fair good-night. 

And pleasing dreams, and slumbers light i 



Story. 



^^ 





r 



THE 



LADY OF THE LAKE 

A POEM IN SIX CANTOS. 



TO THE MOST NOBLE 

JOHN JAMES MARQUIS OF ABERCORN 



ETC. ETC. ETC. 
THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED BY 

THE AUTHOR. 



INTRODUCTION TO EDITION 1830. 

After the success of " Marmion/' I felt inclined to exclaim with Ulysses in the " Odyssey" — 

OuTO? fxeV 6»j ae^Ao? aaaro? eKTeTeAecTTat. 
Wiii' aiixe cTKOTToi' aAAo;'. — Odys. X- '• 5- 

" One venturous game my hand has won to-day — 
Another, gallants, yet remains to play," 

The ancient manners, the habits and customs, of the aborigmal race by whom the Highlands 
of Scotland were inhabited, had always appeared to me peculiarly adapted to poetry. The 
change in their manners, too, had taken place almost within my own time, or at least I had 
learned many particulars concerning the ancient state of the Highlands from the old men of the 
last generation. I liad always thought the old Scottish Gael highly adapted for poetical com- 
position. The leuds, and political dissensions, which, half a century earlier, would have rendered 
the richer and wealthier part of the kingdom indisposed to countenance a poem the scene of 
which was laid in the Highlands, were now sunk in the generous compassion which the English, 
more than any other nation, feel for the misfortunes of an honorable foe. The Poems of Ossian 
had, by their popularity, sufficiently showTi, that if writings on Highland subjects were 
qualified to interest the reader, mere national prejudices were, in the present day, very unlikely 
to interfere with their success- 

I had also read a great deal, seen much, and heard more, of that romantic country, where I 
was in the habit of spending some time every autumn ; and the scenery of Loch Katrine was 
connected with the recollection of many a dear friend and merry expedition of former days. 
This poem, the action of which lay among scenes so beautiful, and so deeply imprinted on my 
recollection, was a labor of love, and it was no less so to recall the manners and incidents 
introduced. The frequent custom of James IV., and particularly of James V., to walk through 
their kingdom in disguise, afforded me the hint of an incident, which never fails to be 
interesting, if managed with the slightest address or dexterity. 

I may now confess, however, that the employment, though attended with great pleasure, was 
not without its doubts and anxieties. A lady, to whom I was nearly related, and with whom I 

(107) 






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1 08 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 

lived, during her whole life, on the most brotherly terms of affection, was residing with me at the 
time when the work was in progress, and used to ask mc, what I could possibly do to rise so 
early in the morning (that happening to be the most convenient time to me for composition). 
At last I told her the subject of my meditations ; and I can never forget the anxiety and 
affection expressed in her reply. " Do not be so rash," she said, "my dearest cousin. You are 
already popular — more so, perhaps, than you yourself will believe, or than even I, or other 
partial friends, can fairly allow to your merit. You stand high — do not rashly attempt to climb 
higher, and incur the risk of a fall ; for, depend upon it, a favorite will not be permitted even 
to stumble with impunity." I replied to this affectionate expostulation in the words of Mont' 
rose— 

" He either fears his fate too much, 

Or his deserts are small. 
Who dares not put it to the touch 

To gain or lose it all." 

" If I fail," I said, for the dialogue is strong in my recollection, "it is a sign that I ought 
never to have succeeded, and I will write prose for life: you shall see no change in my temper, 
nor will 1 eat a single meal the worse. But if I succeed, 

' Up with the bonnie blue bonnet. 
The dirk, and the feather, and a' ! ' " 

Afterwards I showed my affectionate and anxious critic the first canto of the poem, which 
reconciled her to my imprudence. Nevertheless, although I answered thus confidently, w4th the 
obstinacy often said to be proper to those who bear my surname, I acknowledge that my con- 
fidence was considerably shaken by the warning of her excellent taste and unbiassed friend- 
ship. Nor was I much comforted by her retraction of the unfavorable judgment, when I 
recollected how likely a natural partiality was to affect that change of opinion. In such cases, 
affection rises like a light on the canvas, improves any favorable tints which it formerly exhibited, 
and throws its defects into the shade. 

I remember that about the same time a friend started in to " heeze up my hope," like the 
"sportsman with his cutty-gun," in the old song. He was bred a farmer, but a man of powerful 
understanding, natural good taste, and warm poetical feeling, perfectly competent to supply the 
wants of an imperfect or irregular education. He was a passionate admirer of field-sports, which 
we often pursued together. 

As this friend happened to dine with me at Ashestiel one day, I took the opportunity of 
reading to him the first canto of " The Lady of the Lake," in order to ascertain the effect the 
poem was likely to produce upon a person who was but too favorable a representative of readers 
at large. It is, of course, to be supposed, that I determined rather to guide my opinion by what 
my friend might appear to feel, than by what he might think fit to say. His reception of my 
recitation, or prelection, was rather singular. He placed his hand across his brow, and listened 
with great attention through the whole account of the stag-hunt, till the dogs threw themselves 
into the lake to follow their master, who embarks with Ellen Douglas. He then started up with 
a sudden exclamation, struck his hand on the table, and declared, in a voice of censure calcu- 
lated for the occasion, that the dogs must have been totally ruined by being permitted to take 
the water after such a severe chase. I own I was much encouraged by tlie species of reverie 
which had possessed so zealous a follower of the sports of the ancient Nimrod, who had been 
completely surprised out of all doubts of the reality of the tale. Another of his remarks gave 
me less pleasure. He detected the identity of the King with the wandering knight, Fitz-James, 
when he winds his bugle to summon his attendants. He was probably thinking of the lively, 
but somewhat licentious, old ballad, in which the denouement of a royal intrisue takes place as 
follows : — 

" He took a bugle frae his side. 
He blew both loud and shrill. 
And four-and-twenty belted knight 

Came skipping ower the hill ; 
Then he took out a little knife. 

Let a' his duddies fa'. 
And he was the brawest gentleman 
That was amang them a". 

And we'll go no more a-roving," &c. 

The Jolly Beggar, attributed to King James V. — Herd's Collection, 1776. 






THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



[09 



This discovery, as Mr. Pepys says of the rent in his camlet cloak, was but a tiifle, yet it 
troubled me ; and I was at a good deal of pains to efface any marks by which I thought my 
secret could be traced before the conclusion, when I relied on it with the same hope of produc- 
ing effect, with which the Irish post-boy is said to Veserve a " trot for the avenue." _ 

°I took uncommon pains to verify the accuracy of the local circumstances of this story. I 
recollect, in particular, that to ascertain whether I was telling a probable tale, I went into 
Perthshire, to see whether Kine; James could actually have ridden from the banks of Loch 
Vennachar to Stirling Castle within the time supposed in the Poem, and had the pleasure to 
satisfy mvself that it was quite practicable. . . 

After' a considerable delay, "The Lady of the Lake" appeared in May, 1810; and its 
success was certainly so extraordinary as to induce me for the moment to conclude that I had at 
last fixed a nail m tlie proverbially inconstant wheel of Fortune, whose stability in behalf of an 
individual who had to boldly courted her favors for three successive times had not as yet been 
shaken. I had attained, perhaps, that degree of public reputation at which prudence, or cer- 
tainly timidity, would have made a halt, and discontinutd efforts by which I was far more likely 
to diminish my fame than to increase it. But, as the celebrated John Wilkes is said to have 
explained to his fate Majesty, that he himself, amid his full tide of popularity, was never a 
Wilkite, so I can, with the honest truth, exculpate myself from having been at any time a par- 
tisan of my own poetry, even when it was in the highest fashion with the million. It must not 
be supposed that I was either so ungrateful, or so superabundantly candid, as to despise or 
scorn the value of those whose voice had elevated me so much higher than my own opinion told 
me I deserved. I felt, on the contrary, the more grateful to the ijublic, as receiving that from 
partiality to me, which I could not have claimed from merit ; andl endeavored to deserve the 
partiality, by continuing such exertions as 1 was capable of for their amusement. 

It may be that I did not, in this continued course of scribbling, consult either the interest of 
the public or my own. But the former had effectual means of defending themselves, and could, 
by their coldness, sufficiently check any approach to intrusion ; and for myself, I had now for 
several years dedicated my hours so imtch to literary labor, that I should have felt difficulty in 
employing myself otherwise ; and so, like Dogberry, I generously bestowed all my tediousness on 
the public, comforting myself with the reflection, that if posterity should think me undeserving 
of the favor with which I was regarded by my contemporaries, " they could not but say I had 
the crown," and had enjoyed for a time that popularity which is so much coveted. 

I conceived, however, that I held the distinguished situation I had obtained, however un- 
worthily, rather like the champion of pugilism, on the condition of being always ready to show 
proofs of my skill, than in the manner of the champion of chivalry, who performs his duties only 
on rare and solemn occasions. I was in any case conscious that I could not long hold a situation 
which the caprice, rather than the judgment, of the public, had bestovyed upon me, and preferrea 
being deprived of my precedence by some more worthy rival, to sinking into contempt for my 
indolence, and losing my reputation by what Scottish lawyers call the negative prescription. 
Accordingly, those who chose to look at the Introduction to Rokeby, in the present edition, will 
be able to trace the steps by which I declined as a poet to figure as a noveHst ; as the ballad 
says, Queen Eleanor sunk at Charing-Cross to rise again at Queenhithe. t r • uc n 

It only remains forme to say, that, during my short pre-eminence of popularity, I faithfully 
observed the rules of moderation which I had resolved to follow before I began my course as a 
man of letters. If a man is determined to make a noise in the world, he is as sure to encounter 
abuse and ridicule, as he who gallops furiously through a village must reckon on being followed 
by the curs in full cry. Experienced persons know, tha,t in stretching to flog the latter, the 
rider is very apt to catch a bad fall : nor is an attempt .0 chastise a malignant critic attended 
with less danger to the author. On this principle, I let parody, burlesque, and squibs, find then- 
own level ; and while the latter hissed most fiercely, i was cautious never to catch them up, as 
schoolboys do, to throw them back against the naughty boy who fired them off, wisely remem- 
bering that they are, in such cases, apt to explode in the handling. Let me add, that my reign 
(since Byron has so called it) was marked by some instances of good-nature as well as patience- 
I never refused a literary person of merit such services in smoothing his way to the public as 
were in my power: and I had the advantage, rather an uncommon one with our irritable race, to 
enjoy general favor, without incurring permanent ill-will, so far as is known to me, among any of 
my contemporaries. ^,. 

Abbotsford, April, 1830. 



The Scetze of tJie following Poem is laid chiefly in the Vicinity of Loch Katrine, in the 
Western Highl(i7ids of Perthshire. The time of Action includes Six Days, and the trans- 
actions of tach Day occupy a Cante. 





j£ 




THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



CANTO FIRST. 

THE CHASE. 

Harp of the North 1 that mouldering lonc^ 
hast hung 
On the witch-elm that shades Saint Fil- 
lan's spring, 
And down the fitful breeze thy numbers 
flung, 
Till envious ivy did around thee cling, 
Muffling with verdant ringlet every string, — 
O minstrel Harp, still must thine accents 
sleep { 
Mid rustling leaves and fountains murmur- 

Still must thy svireeter sounds their silence 
keep, 
Nor bid a warrior smile, nor teach a maid to 
weep? 

Not thus, in ancient days of Caledon, 
Was thy voice mute amid the festal 
crowd, 
When lay of hopeless love, or glory won, 
Aroused the fearful, or subdued the 
proud. 
At each according pause, was heard aloud 
Thine ardent symphony sublime and 
high 1 
Fair dames and crested chiefs attention 
bow'd ; 
For still the burden of thy minstrelsy 
Was Knighthood's dauntless deed, and 
Beauty's matchless eye. 

O wake once more 1 how rude soe'er the 
hand 
That ventures o'er thy magic maze to 
stray ; 
O wake once more ! though scarce my skill 
command 
Some feeble echoing of thine earlier lay : 
Though harsh and faint, and soon to die 
away, 
And all unworthy of thy nobler strain. 
Yet if one heart throb higher at its sway, 
The wizard note has not been touch'd in 
vam. 
Then silent be no more I Enchantress, I 
wake again I 

(no) 



The stag at eve had drunk his fill, 

Where danced the moon on Monan'srUi, • 

And deep his midnight lair had made 

In lone Glenartney's hazel shade ; 

But, when the sun his beacon red 

Had kindled on Benvoirlich's head,* 

The deep-mouth'd bloodhound's heavy bay 

Resounded up the rocky way, 

And faint, from farther distance borne. 

Were heard the clang of hoof and horn. 



As Chief, who hears his warder call, 
" To arms ! the foemen storm the wall,'^ 
The_antler'd monarch of the waste 
Sprung from his heathery couch in liaste. 
But, ere his fleet career he took. 
The dew-drops from his flanks he shook ; 
Like crested leader proud and high, 
Toss'd his beam'd frontlet to the sky ; 
A moment gazed adown the dale, 
A moment snuff'd the tainted gale, 
A moment listen'd to the cry. 
That thicken'd as the chase clrew nigh ; 
Then, as the headmost foes appear'd. 
With one brave bound the copse he clear'd, 
And, stretching forward free and far, 
Sought the wild heaths of Uam-Var. 



Yell'd on the view the opening pack ; 
Rock, glen, and cavern paid them back ; 
To many a mingled sound at once 
The awaken'd mountain gave response. 
A hundred dogs bay'd deep and strong, 
Clatter'd a hundred steeds along. 
Their peal the merry horns rung out, 
A hundred voices jom'd the shout; 
With hark and whoop and wild halloo. 
No rest Benvoirlicli's eclioes knew. 
Far from the tumult fled the roe, 
Close in her covert cower'd the doe, 
The falcon, from her cairn on high, 
Cast on the rout a wondering eye, 



* One of tlie Grampian chain of mountain 
at the head of the Valley of the Garry. 






The noble stag was pausing now, 
Upon the mountain's southern brow." 

Lady of the Lake. — Canto I., ^. 





THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



Till far beyond her piercing ken 
The hurricane had swept the glen. 
Faint and more faint, its failing din 
Return'd from cavern, cliff, and linn, 
And silence settled, wide and still. 
On the lone wood and mighty hill. 



Less loud the sounds of sylvan war 
Disturb'd the heights of Uam-Var, 
And roused the cavern, where 'tis told, 
A giant made his den of old ; ' 
For ere that steep ascent was won, 
High in his pathway hung the sun. 
And m.iny a gallant, stay'd perforce, 
Was fain to breathe his faltering horse, 
And of the trackers of the deer. 
Scarce half the lessening pack was near ; 
So shrewdly on the mountain side 
Had the bold burst their mettle tried. 

V. 

The noble stag was pausing now, 
U pon the mountain's southern brow, 
Where broad extended, far beneath, 
The varied realms of fair Menteith. 
With anxious eye he wander'd o'er 
Mountain and meadow, moss and moor, 
And ponder'd refuge from his toil, 
By far Lochard or Aberfoyle. 
But nearer was the copsewood gray, 
That waved and wept on Loch-Achray, 
And mingled with the pine-trees bkie 
On the bold cliffs of Ben venue. 
Fresh vigor with the hope return'd, 
With flying foot the heath he spurn'd, 
Held westward with unwearied race. 
And left behind the panting chase. 

VI. 

'Twere long to tell what steeds gave o'er, 
As swept the hunt through Cambus-more ; 
What reins were tighten'd in despair, 
When rose Benledi's ridge in air ; * 
Who flagg'd upon Bochastle's heath, 
Who shunn'd to stem the flooded Teith,t- 
For twice that day, from shore to shore. 
The gallant stag swam stoutly o'er. 
Few were the stragglers, following far. 
That reach'd the lake of Venachar ; 
And when the Brigg | of Turk was won, 
The headmost horseman rode alone. 



* Benledi is a high miuntain on the north- 
west of Calleiider. Its name signifies the 
mountain of God. 

t A river which gives its name to the 
territory of Menteith. 

X Brigg, a bridge. 



Alone, but wilh unbated zeal, 

That horseman plied the scourge and steel ; 

For jaded now, and spent with toil, 

Emboss'd witli foam, and dark with soil, 

While every gasp with sobs lie drew. 

The laboring stag strain'd full in view. 

Two dogs of Ijlack Saint Hubert's breed, 

Umiatch'd for courage, breath, and speed,^ 

Fast on his flying traces came. 

And all but won that desperate game ; 

For, scarce a spear's length from his 

haunch. 
Vindictive toil'd the bloodhounds staunch ; 
Nor nearer might the clogs attain. 
Nor farther might the quarry strain 
Thus up the margin of the lake, 
Between the precipice and brake, 
O'er stock and rock their race they take 



The Hunter mark'd that mountain high, 
The lone lake's western boundary. 
And deem'd the stag must turn to bay, 
Where that huge rampart barr'd the way 
Already glorying in the prize, 
Measured his antlers with his eyes ; 
For the death-wound and death-halloo, 
Muster'd liis breath, his whinyard drew ; ^ — 
But thundering as he came prepared. 
With ready arm and weapon bared, 
The wily quarry shunn'd the shock. 
And turn'd him from the opposing rock; 
Then, dashing down a darksome glen, 
Soon lost to hound and hunter's ken, 
In the deep Trosach's wildest nook 
His solitary refuge took. 
There, while close couch'd, the thicket shed 
Cold dews and wild-flowers on his liead, 
He heard the baffled dogs in vain 
Rave through the hollow pass amain, 
Chiding the rocks that yell'd again. 



Close on the hounds the Hunter came, 
To cheer them on the vanish'd game ; 
But, stumbling in the rugged dell. 
The gallant horse exhausted fell. 
The impatient rider strove in vain 
To rouse him with the spur and rein, 
For the good steed, his labors o'er, 
Stretch'd his stiff linibs to rise no more : 
Then, touch'd with pity and remorse, 
He sorrow'd o'er the expiring horse. 
" I little thought, when first thy i-ein 
I slack'd upon the banks of Seine, 







SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



That Highland eagle e'er should feed 
On thy fleet limbs, my matchless steed . 
Woe worth the chase, woe worth the day, 
That costs thy life, my gallant gray ! " 



Then through the dell his horn resounds, 
From vain pursuit to call the hounds. 
Back limp'd, with slow and crippled pace. 
The sulky leaders of the chase ; 
Close to their master's side they press'd, 
With drooping tale and humbled crest ; 
But still the dingle's hollow throat 
Prolong'd the swelling bugle-note. 
The owlets started from their dream. 
The eagles answer'd with their scream, 
Round and around the sounds were cast, 
Till echo seem'd an answering blast; 
And on the Hunter hied his way. 
To join some comrades of the clay ; 
Yet often paused, so strange the road, 
So wondrous were the scenes it show'd. 

XI. 

The western waves of ebbing day 
Roll'd o'er the glen their level way ; 
Each purple peak, each flinty spire, 
Was bathed in floods of living fire. 
But not a setting beam could glow 
Within the dark ravines below, 
Wliere twined the path in shadow hid, 
Round many a rocky pyramid, 
Shooting abruptly from the dell 
Its thunder-splinter'd pinnacle; 
Round many an insulated mass, 
The native bulwarks of the pass. 
Huge as the tower * which builders vain 
Presumptuous piled on Shinar's plain. 
The rocky summits, split and rent, 
Form'd turret, dome, or battlement, 
Or seem'd fantastically set 
With cupola or minaret, 
Wild crests as pagod ever deck'd, 
Or mosque of Eastern architect. 
Nor were these earth-born castles bare. 
Nor lack'd they many a banner fair ; 
For, from their shiver'd brows display'd. 
Far o'er the unfathomable glade. 
All twinkling with the dew-drops sheen, 
The brier-rose fell in streamers green. 
And creeping shrubs, of thousana dyes, 
Waved in the west-wind's summer sighs. 

XII. 

Boon nature scatter'd, free and wild. 
Each plant or flower, the mountain's child, 

* The Tower of Babel. — Genesis xi. i-g. 



Here eglantine embalm'd the air, 
Hawthorn and hazel mingled there ; 
The primrose pale and violet flower, 
Found in each clift a narrow bower ; 
Fox-glove and night-shade, side by side, 
Emblems of punishment and pride, 
Group'd their dark hues with every stain. 
The weather-beaten crags retain. 
With boughs that quaked at every breath. 
Gray birch and aspen wept beneath : 
Aloft, the ash and warrior oak 
Cast anchor in the rifted rock ; 
And, higher yet, the pine-tree hung 
His shatter'd trunk, and frequent flung, 
Where seem'd the cliffs to meet on high, 
His boughs atliwart the narrow'd sky. 
Highest of all, where white peaks glanced. 
Where glist'ning streamers waved and 

danced. 
The wanderer's eye could barely view 
The summer heaven's delicious blue ; 
So wondrous wild, the whole might seem 
The scenery of a fairy dream. 



Onward, amid the copse 'gan peep 
A narrow inlet, still and deep. 
Affording scarce such breadth of brim, 
As served the wild duck's brood to swim, 
Lost for a space, through thickets veering, 
But broader when again appearing. 
Tall rocks and tufted knolls their face 
Could on the dark-blue mirror trace ; 
And farther as the hunter stray'd. 
Still Ijroader sweeps its channels made. 
The shaggy mounds no longer stood, 
Emerging from entangled wood, 
But, wave-encircled, seem"d to float, 
Like castle girdled with its moat; 
Yet broader floods extending still 
Divide them from their parent hill 
Till each, retiring, claims to be 
An islet in an inland sea. 



And now, to issue from the glen. 

No pathway meets the wanderer's ken, 

Unless he climb, with footing nice, 

k far projecting precipice.'* 

The broom's tough roots his ladder made, 

The hazel saplings lent their aid; 

.\nd thus an airy point he won, 

Where, gleaming with the setting sun. 

One burnish'd sheet of living gold. 

Loch Katrine lay beneath him roll'd, 

In all her length far winding lay, 

With promontory, creek, and bay. 





1 




J 1 f 1 •) 


" \ ■' r — h^ 




^ . \ 






7 /'\ 


•X c \ J 


r- 




Xr 




r 


llp 






r//.e LADY OF THE LAKE 1 13 






And islands that, empurpled bright 


Or, fall the worst that may betide. 




Floated amid the livelier light, 


Ere now this falchion has been tried." 






[, And mountains, that like giants stand. 






*■ 


To sentinel enchanted land. 


XV 11. '^ ^ 






High on the south, huge Benvenue 


But scarce again his horn he wound. 






Down on the lake in masses threw 


When lo ! forth starting at the sound. 






Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly 


From underneath an aged oak. 






hurl'd. 


That slanted from the islet rock, 






The fragments of an earlier world ; 


A damsel guider of its way, 






A wildering forest feather'd o'er 


A little skitf shot to the bay. 






His ruin'd sides and summit hoar, 


That round the promontory steep 






While on the north, through middle air. 


Led Its deep line in gracelul sweep. 






Ben-an heaved high his forehead bare. 


Eddying in almost viewless wave. 
The weeping willow-twig to lave. 






XV. 


And kiss, with whispering sound and slow, 






From the steep promontory gazed 


The beach of pebbles bright as snow. 






The stranger, raptured and amazed. 


The boat had touch'd this silver strand, 






And, " What a scene were here," he cried. 


Just as the hunter left his stand, 






" For princely pomp, or churchman's pride ! 


And stood conceal'd amid the brake, 






On this bold brow, a lordly tower. 


To view this Lady of the Lake. 






In that soft vale, a lady's bower ; 


The maiden paused, as if again 






On yonder meadow, far away, 


She thought to catch the distant strain 






The turrets of a cloister gray ; 


With head up-raised, and look intent. 






How blithely might the bugle-horn 


And eye and ear attentive bent. 






Chide, on the lake, the lingering morn ! 


And locks flung back, and lips apart, 






How sweet, at eve, the lover's lute 


Like monument of Grecian art. 






Chime, when the groves were still and 


In listening mood, she seem'd to stand, 






mute 1 


The guardian Naiad of the strand. 


* 




And, when the midnight moon should lave 








Her forehead in the silver wave. 


XVIII. 






How solemn on the ear would come 


And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace 






The holy matins' distant hum. 


A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace, 






While the deep peal's commanding tone 


Of finer form, or lovelier face ; 






Should wake, in yonder islet lone, 


What though the sun, with ardent frown, 






A sainted hermit from his cell, 


Had slightly tinged her cheek with brown,— 






To drop a bead with every knell — 


The sportive toil, which, short and light 






And bugle, lute, and bell, and all. 


Had dyed her glowing hue so bright. 






Should each bewilder'd stranger call 


Served too in hastier swell to show 






To friendly feast, and lighted hall. 


Short glimpses of a breast of snow : 
What though no rule of courtly grace 






XVI. 


To measured mood had trained her pace, — 






" Blithe were it then to wander here ! 


A foot more light, a step more true. 






But now, — beshrew yon nimble deer, — 


Ne'er from the heath-flower dash'd the dew ; 






Like that same hermit's, thin and spare, 


E'en the slight harebell raised its head. 






The copse must give my evening fare ; 


Elastic from her airy tread : 






Some mossy bank my couch must be 


What though upon "her speech there hung 






Some rustling oak my canopy. 


The accents of the mountain tongue, — 






Yet pass we that ; the war and chase 


Those silver sounds, so soft, so clear, 






Give little choice of resting-place; — 


The listener held his breath to hear ! 






A summer night, in greenwood spent, 








Were but to-morrow's merriment ; 


XIX. 






But hosts may in these wilds abound, 


A Chieftain's daughter seem'd the maid. 






T Such as are better miss'd than found ; 


Her satin snood,* her silken plaid. T 






1 P To meet with Highland plunderers here. 


Her golden brooch, such birth betray'd. ^ ? 






Were worse than loss of steed or deer. — ^ 
I am alone, — my bugle strain 








* Snood, the fillet worn round the hair 0', 






May call some straggler of the train ; 
8 


maidens. 













IK 




J I. 

x' 




. y I* 1 t 


1- 1 •) 


- W 








^ \y 


^ — 1 (. 1 J 


(. 1 ,:> 









114 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And seldom was a snood amid 

Such wild luxuriant ringlets hid, 

Whose glossy black to shame might bring 

The plumage of the raven's wing ; 

And seldom o'er a breast so fair, 

Mantled a plaid with modest care, 

And never brooch the folds combined 

Above a heart more good and kind. 

Her kindness and her worth to spy, 

Vou need but gaze on Ellen's eye ; 

Not Katrine, in her mirror blue, 

Gives back the shaggy banks more true, 

Than every free-born glance confess'd 

The guileless movements of her breast ; 

Whether joy danced in her dark eye, 

Or woe or pity claim'd a sigh, 

Or filial love was glowing there. 

Or meek devotion pour'd a prayer, 

Or tale of injury call'd forth 

The indignant spirit of the North. 

One only passion unreveal'd, 

With maiden pride the maid conceal'd, 

Yet not less purely felt the flame ; — 

need I tell that passion's name I 

XX. 

Impatient of the silent horn, 
Now on the gale her voice was borne ; — 
" Father ! " she cried ; the rocks around 
Loved to prolong the gentle sound. 
Awhile she paused, no answer came, — 
'' Malcolm, was thine the blast?'' the name 
Less resolutely utter'd fell, 
The echoes could not catch the swell. 
" A stranger I," the Huntsman said, 
Advancing from the hazel shade. 
The maid, alarm'd, with hasty oar, 
Piish'd her light shallop from the shore, 
And when a space was gain'd between, 
Closer she drew her bosom's screen ; 
(So forth the startled swan would swing, 
So turn to prune his ruffled w'ing.) 
Then safe, though flutter'd and amazed, 
She paused and on the stranger gazed. 
Not his the form, nor his the eye. 
That youthful maidens wont to fly 



On his bold visage midlde age 
Aad slightly press'd its signet sage 
Vet had not quench'd the open truth 
And fiery vehemence of youth ; 
Forward and frolic glee was there, 
The will to do, tlie soul to dare, 
The sparkhng glance, soon blown to fire, 
Of hasty love, or headlong ire. 



His limbs were cast in manly mould, 

For hardy sports or contest bold ; 

And though in peaceful garb array'd, 

."Xnd weaponless, except his blade, 

Plis stately mien as well implied 

A high-born heart, a martial pride, 

As if a Baron's crest he wore. 

And sheathed in armor trode the shore. 

Slighting the petty need he show'd, 

He told of his benighted road ; 

His ready speech flow'd fair and free, 

In phrase of gentlest courtesy ; 

Yet seem'd that tone, and gesture bland, 

Less used to sue than to command. 



K. while the maid tlie stranger eyed, 
And, reassured, at length replied, 
That Highland halls v;ere open still 
To wilder'd wanderers of the hill. 
" Nor think you unexpected come 
To yon lone isle, our desert home ; 
Before the heath had lost the dew, 
This morn, a couch was pull'd for you; 
On yonder mountain's purple head 
Have ptarmigan and heath-cock bled, 
And our broad nets have swept the mere 
To furnish forth your evening cheer." — 
" Now, by the rood, my lovely maid, 
Your courtesy has err'd," he said ; 
" No right have I to claim, misplaced, 
The welcome of expected guest. 
A wanderer, here by fortune tost, 
My way, my friends, my courser lost, 
I ne'er before, believe me, fair. 
Have ever drawn your mountain air, 
Till on this lake's romantic strand, 
I found a fay in fairy land I " — 



" I well believe," the maid replied, 
As her light skiff approach'd the side, — - 
" I well believe, that ne'er before 
Your foot has trod Loch Katrine's shoi'e, 
But yet, as far as yesternight. 
Old Allan-Bane foretold your plight,— 
A gray-hair'd sire, whose eye intent 
Was on the vision'd future bent.^ 
He saw your steed, a dappled gray, 
Lie dead beneath the birchen way; 
Painted exact your form and mien. 
Your hunting suit of Lincoln green, 
That tassell'd horn so gayly gilt. 
That falchion's crooked blade and hilt. 
That cap with heron plumage trim, 
And yon two hounds so dark and grim. 







THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



He bade that all should ready be, 
To grace a guest of fair degree , 
But light 1 held his prophecy, 
And deem'd it was my fatlier's horn, 
Whose echoes o'er the lake were borne." 

XXIV. 

The stranger smiPd : — " Since to your 

home 
A destined errant-knight I come, 
Announced by prophet sooth and old, 
Doom'd, doubtless, for achievement bold, 
I'll lightly front each high emprise. 
For one kind glance of those bright eyes. 
Permit me, first, the task to guide 
Your fairy frigate o'er the tide." 
The maid with smile suppress'd and sly 
The toil unwonted saw him try ; 
For seldom sure, if e'er before, 
His noble hand had grasp'd an oar : 
Yet with main strength his strokes he drew, 
And o'er the lake the shallop flew; 
\Yith heads erect, and whimpering cry, 
The hounds behind their passage ply. 
Nor frequent does the bright oar break 
The dark'ning mirror of the lake. 
Until the rocky isle they reach, 
And moor their shallop on the beach. 

XXV. 

The stranger view'd the shore around, 
'T was all so close with copsewood bound. 
Nor track nor pathway might declare 
That human foot frequented there. 
Until the mountain-maiden show'd 
A clambering, unsuspected road, 
That winded through the tangled screen. 
And open'd on a narrow green, 
\Vhere weeping birch and willow round 
With their long fibres swept the ground. 
Here, for retreat in dangerous hour, 
Some chief had framed a rustic bower.'' 

x.xvi. 
It was a lodge of ample size, 
But strange of structure and device, 
Of such materials, as around 
The workman's hands had readiest found. 
Lopp'd off their boughs, their hoar trunks 

bared, 
And by the hatchet rudely squared, 
To give the walls their destined height, 
The sturdy oak and ash unite ; 
While moss and clay and leaves combined 
To fence each crevice from the wind. 
The lighter pine-trees over-head. 
Their slender length for rafters spread, 
And withered heath and rushes dry 



Supplied a russet canopy- 
Due westward, fronting to the green, 
A rural portico was seen. 
Aloft on native pillars borne, 
Of mountain fir, with bark unshorn. 
Where Ellen's hand had taught to twine 
The ivy and Idaean vine, 
The clematis, the favor'd flower 
W'hich boasts the name of virgin-bower, 
And every hardy plant could bear 
Loch Katrine's keen and searching air. 
An instant in this porch she staid, 
.And gayly to the stranger said, 
" On heaven and on thy lady call. 
And enter the enchanted hall I " 



" My hope, my heaven, my trust must be. 
My gentle guide, in following thee." 
He cross'd the threshold — and a clang 
Of angry steel that instant rang. 
To his bold brow his spirit rush'd, 
Put soon for vain alarm he blush'd. 
When on the floor he saw display'd. 
Cause of the din, a naked blade 
Dropp'd from the sheath, that careless 

flung 
Upon a stag's huge antlers swung; 
For all around, the walls to grace, 
Hung trophies of the fight or chase ; 
A target there, a bugle here, 
A battle-axe, a hunting-spear, 
And broadswords, bows and arrows, store, 
With the tusk'd trophies of the boar. 
Here grins the wolf as when he died, 
And there the wild-cat's brindled hide 
The frontlet of the elk adorns. 
Or mantles o'er the bison's horns ; 
Pennons and flags defaced and stain'd, 
That blackening streaks of blood retain'd, 
And deer-skins, dappled, dun, and white, 
With otter's fur and seal's unite. 
In rude and uncouth tapestry all, 
To garnish forth the sylvan hall. 



The wondering stranger round him gazed, 

And next the fallen weapon raised : — 

Few were the arms whose sinewy strength 

Sufficed to stretch it forth at length. 

And as the brand he poised and sway'd, 

" I never knew but one,'' he said, 

" Whose stalwart arm mi'^ht brook to wieid 

A blade like this in battle-field." 

She sigh'd, then smiled and took the word- 

" You see the guardian champion's sword : 







ii6 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



As light it trembles in his hand, 

As in my grasp a hazel wand ; 

My sire's tall form might grace the part 

Of Ferragus or Ascabart ; ^ 

But in the absent giant's hold 

Are women now and menials old." 



The mistress of the mansion came, 
Mature of age, a graceful dame ; 
Whose easy step and stately port 
Had well become a princely court, 
To whom, though more than kindred knew, 
.Young Ellen gave a mother's due. 
Meet welcome to her guest she made, 
And every courteous rite was paid. 
That hospitality could claim. 
Though all unask'd his birth and name.9 
Such then the reverence to a guest, 
That fellest foe might join tlie feast, 
And from his deadliest foeman's door 
Unquestion'd turn, the banquet o'er. 
At length his rank the stranger names, 
" The Knight of Snowdoun, James Fitz- 

James ; 
Lord of a barren heritage, 
Which his brave sires, from age to age, 
By their good swords had held with toil ; 
His sire had fallen in such turmoil, 
And he, God wot, was forced to stand 
Oft for his right with blade m hand. 
This morning, with Lord Moray's train, 
He chased a stalwart stag in vain, 
Outstripp'd his comrades, miss'd the deer. 
Lost his eood steed, and wander'd here." 



Fain would the knight in turn require 
The name and srate of Ellen's sire. 
Well show'd the elder lady's mien. 
That courts and cities she had seen ; 
Ellen, though more her looks display'd 
The simple grace of sylvan maid, 
In speech and gesture, form and face, 
Show'd she was come of gentle race. 
'Twere strange, in ruder rank to find. 
Such looks, such manners, and such mind. 
Each hint the Knight of Snowdoun gave. 
Dame Margaret heard with silence grave ; 
Or Ellen, innocently gay, 
Turn'd all inquiry light away : — 
" Weird women we ! by dale and down 
We dwell, afar from tower and town. 
We stem the flood, we ride the blast, 
On wandering knights our spells we cast : 



While viewless minstrels touch the string 
'Tis thus our charmed rhymes we sing.'' 
She sung, and still a harp unseen 
Fill'd up the symphony between, 



" Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er. 

Sleep the sleep that knows no breaking 
Dream of battled fields no moi'e, 

Days of danger, nights of waking. 
In our isle's enchanted hall, 

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing 
Fairy strains of music fall. 

Every sense in slumber dewing. 
Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er. 
Dream of fighting fields no more : 
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, 
Morn of toil, nor night of waking. 

" No rude sound shall reach thine ear. 

Armor's clang, or war-steed champing, 
Trump nor pibroch summon here 

Mustering clan, or squadron tramping ; 
Vet the lark's shrill fife may come 

At the day-break from the fallow, 
And the bittern sound his drum. 

Booming from the sedgy shallow. 
Ruder sounds shall none be near. 
Guards nor warders challenge here ; 
Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing 
Shouting clans, or squadrons stamping." 

XXXII. 

She paused — then, blushing, led the lay 
To grace the stranger of the day. 
Her mellow notes awhile prolong 
The cadence of the flowing song. 
Till to her lips in measured frame 
The minstrel verse spontaneous came. 

SONG CONTINUED. 

" Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done, 

While our slumb'rous spells assail ye. 
Dream not, with the rising sun, 

Bugles here shall sound reveille. 
Sleep ! the deer is in his den ; 

Sleep ! thy hounds are by thee lying ; 
Sleep ! nor dream in yonder glen. 

How thy gallant steed lay dying. 
Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done, 
Think not of the rising sun. 
For at dawning to assail ye. 
Here no bugles sound reveille." 

XXXIII. 

The hall was clear'd — the stranger's bed 
Was there of mountain heather spread, 







THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



117 - - 



Where oft a hundred guests had Iain, 
And dream'd their forest sports again. 
But vainl)' did tlie heath-flower shed 
Its moorland fragrance lound Iiis head ; 
Not Ellen's spell had lulPd to rest 
The fever of his troubled breast. 
In broken dreams the image rose 
Of varied perils, pains, and woes : 
His steed now flounders in the break. 
Now sinks his barge upon the lake ; 
Now leader of a broken host. 
His standard falls, his honor's lost. 
Then, — from my couch may heavenly might 
Chase that worst phantom of the night ! — 
Again return'd the scenes of youth, 
Of confident undoubting truth ; 
Again his soul he interchanged 
With friends whose hearts were long es- 
tranged. 
They come, in dim procession led, 
The cold, the faithless, and the dead ; 
As warm each hand, each brow as gay, 
As if they parted yesterday. 
And doubt distracts him at the view. 
O, were his senses false or true ? 
Dream'd he of death, or broken vow, 
Or is it all a vision now 1 

XXXIV. 

At length, with Ellen in a grove 

He seem'd to walk, and speak of love ; 

She listen'd with a blush and sigh. 

His suit was warm, his hopes were high. 

He sought her yielded hand to clasp. 

And a cold gauntlet met his grasp : 

The phantom's sex was changed and gone. 

Upon its head a helmet shone ; 

Slowly enlarged to giant size, 

With darken'd cheek and threatening eyes, 

The grisly visage, stern and hoar, 

To Ellen still a likeness bore. — 

He woke, and panting with affright, 

Recall'd the vision of the night. 

The hearth's decaying brands were red. 

And deep and dusky lustre shed, 

Half showing, half concealing, all 

The uncouth trophies of thp. hall. 

'Mid those the stranger fix'd his eye, 

Where that huge falchion hung on high, 

And thoughts on thoughts, a countless 

throng, 
Rush'd. chasing countless thoughts along, 
Until, the giddy whirl to cure. 
He rose, and sought the moonshme pure. 

XXXV. 

The wild rose, eglantine, and broom, 
Wafted around their rich perfume •• 



The birch-trees wept in fragrant balm, 

The aspens slept beneath the calm ; 

The silver light, with quivering glance, 

Play'd on the water's still expanse, — 

Wild were the heart whose passions' sway 

Could rage beneath the sober ray ! 

He felt its calm, that warrior guest, 

While thus he communed with his breast ; 

" Why is it, at each turn I trace 

Some memory of that exiled race I 

Can I not mountain-maiden spy. 

But she must bear the Douglas eye ? 

Can I not view a Highland brand. 

But it must match the Douglas hand? 

Can I not frame a fever'd dream. 

But still the Douglas is the theme ? 

I'll dream no more — by manly mind 

Not even in sleep is will resign'd. 

My midnight orisons said o'er, 

I'll turn to rest, and dream no more." 

His midnight orisons he told, 

A prayer with every bead of gold, 

Consign'd to heaven his cares and woes, 

And sunk in undisturb'd repose ; 

Until the heath-cock shrilly crew. 

And morning dawn'd on Benvenue. 



CANTO SECOND. 



THE ISLAND 



At morn the black-cock trims his jetty 
wing, 
'Tis morning prompts the linnet's bUth« 
est lay. 
All Nature's children feel the matin spring 

Of life reviving, with reviving dav ; 
And while yon little bark glides down the 
bay. 
Wafting the stranger on his way again, 
Morn's genial influence roused a minstrel 
gray, 
And sweetly o'er the lake was heard thy 
strain, 
Mix'd with the sounding harp, O white 
hair'd A llan-Bane ! '° 



" Not faster yonder rowers' might 
Flings from their oars the spray, 
Not faster yonder rippling bright, 
That tracks the shallop's course in light, 
Melts in the lake away, 







ii8 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Than men from memory erase 

The benefits of former days ; 

Then, stranger, go ! good speed the while, 

Nor think again of the lonely isle. 

" High place to thee in royal court, 

High place in battle line. 
Good hawk and hound for sylvan sport, 
Where beauty sees the brave resort. 

The honor'd meed be thine ! 
True be thy sword, thy friend sincere. 
Thy lady constant, kind, and clear, 
And lost in love and friendship's smile 
Be memory of the lonely isle. 



SONG CONTINUED. 

" But if beneath yon southern sky 

A plaided stranger roam. 
Whose drooping crest and stifled sigh, 
And sunken cheek and heavy eye. 

Pine for his Highland home ; 
Then, warrior, then be thine to show 
The care that soothes a wanderer's woe ; 
Remember then thy hap erewhile, 
A stranger in the lonely isle. 

" Or if on life's uncertain main 

Mishap shall mar thy sail ; 
If faithful, wise, and brave in vain, 
Woe, want, and exile thou sustain 

Beneath the fickle gale ; 
Waste not a sigh on fortune changed. 
On thankless courts, or friends estranged. 
But come where kindred worth shall smile, 
To greet thee in the lonely isle." 

IV. 

As died the sounds upon the tide, 
The shallop reach'd the mainland side, 
And ere his onward way he took, 
The stranger cast a lingering look, 
Where easily his eye might reach 
The Harper on the islet beach. 
Reclined against a blighted tree. 
As wasted, gray, and worn as he. 
To minstrel meditation given. 
His reverend brow was raised to heaven. 
As from the rising sun to claim 
A sparkle of inspiring flame. 
His hand, reclined upon tlie wire, 
Seem'd watchmg the awakening fire ; 
So still he sate, as those who wait 
Till judgment speak the doom of fate ; 
So still, as if no breeze might dare 
To lift one lock of hoary hair ; 
So still, as life itself were fled, 
In the last sound his harp had sped. 



Upon a rock with hchens wild, 
Beside him Ellen sate and smiled. — 
Smiled she to see the stately drake 
Lead forth his fleet upon the lake. 
While her vex'd spaniel from the beach, 
Bay'd at the prize beyond his reach ? 
Yet tell me, then, the maid who knows, 
Why deepen'd on her cheek the rose ?— 
Forgive, forgive. Fidelity ! 
Perchance the maiden smiled to see 
Yon parting lingerer wave adieu, 
And stop and turn to wave anew ; 
And, lovely ladies, ere your ire 
Condemn the heroine of my lyr?. 
Show me the fair would scorn to spy, 
And prize such conquest of her eye ! 

VI. 

While yet he loiter'd on the spot, 
i; seem'd as Ellen mark'd him not; 
But when he turn'd him to the glade, 
One courteous parting sign she madej 
And after oft the knight would say. 
That not when prize of festal day 
Was dealt him by the brightest fair 
Who e'er wore jewel in her hair, 
So highly did his bosom swell. 
As at that simple mute farewell. 
Now with a trusty mountain-guide. 
And his dark stag-hounds by his side, 
He parts — the maid, unconscious still, 
Watch'd him wind slowly round the hill ; 
But when his stately form was hid, 
The guardian in her bosom chid — 
" Thy Malcolm ! vain and selfish maid ! " 
'Twas thus upbraiding conscience said, — 
'■ Not so had Malcolm idly hung 
On the smooth phrase of southern tongue; 
Not so had Malcolm strain'd his eye, 
Another step than thine to spy. 
Wake, Allan-Bane," aloud she cried, 
To the old Minstrel by her side, — 
■' Arouse thee from thy moody dream ! 
I'll give thy harp heroic theme, 
And warm thee with a noble name ; 
Pour forth the glory of the Gra;me ! " '' 
Scarce from her lip the word had rush'd. 
When deep the conscious maiden blush'd ; 
For of his clan, in hall and bower. 
Young Malcolm Graeme was held the 
flower, 

VII. 

The Minstrel waked his harp — three times 
Arose the well-known martial chimes. 
And thrice their high heroic pride 
In melancholy murmurs died. 




w 




THE LADY OF THE LAKE 



" Vainly thou bid'st, O noble maid," 

Clasping his wither'd hands, he said, 

" Vainly thou bid'st me wake -the strain, 

Though all unvvont to bid in vain. 

Alas ! than mine a mightier hand 

Has tuned my harp, my strin^gs hasspann'd ! 

1 touch the chords of joy, but low 

And mournful answer notes of woe ; 

And the proud march, which victors tread, 

Sinks in the wailing for the dead. 

O well for me, if mine alone 

That dirge's deep prophetic tone ! 

If, as my tuneful fathers said, 

This harp, which erst Saint IModan sway'd,'' 

Can thus its master's fate foretell, 

Then welcome be the minstrel's kneel I 

vin. 

" But ah ! dear lady, thus it sigh'd 

The eve thy sainted mother died ; 

And such the sounds which, while I strove 

To wake a lay of war or love, 

Came marring all the festal mirth. 

Appalling me who gave them birth, 

And, disobedient to my call, 

Wail'd loud through Bothwell's banner'd 

hall. 
Ere Douglasses, to ruin driven,'^ 
Were exiled from their native heaven. - 
Oh 1 if yet worse mishap and woe 
My master's house must undergo, 
Or aught but weal to Ellen fair 
Brood in these accents of despair, 
No future bard, sad Harp ! shall fling 
Triumph or rapture from thy string ; 
One short, one final strain shall flow. 
Fraught with unutterable woe. 
Then shiver'd shall thy fragments lie, 
Thy master cast him down and die ! " 



Soothing she answer'd him, " Assuage, 
Mine honor'd friend, the fears of age ; 
All melodies .to thee are known, 
That harp has rung, or pipe has blown, 
in Lowland vale or Highland glen. 
From Tweed to Spey — what marvel, then. 
At times, unbidden notes should rise. 
Confusedly bound in memory's ties. 
Entangling, as they rush along, 
The war-march with the funeral song ? — 
Small ground is now for boding fear; 
Obscure, but safe, we rest us here. 
My sire, in native virtue great, 
Resigning lordship, lands, and state. 
Not then to fortune more resign'd 
Than yonder oak might give the wind ; 



The graceful foliage storms may reave, 

The noble stem they cannot grieve. 

For me," — she stoop'd, and, looking round, 

Pluck'd a blue hare-bell from the ground,— 

" For me, whose memory scarce conveys 

An image of more splendid dayS; 

This little flower, that loves the lea, 

May well my simple emblem be ; 

It drinks heaven's dew as blithe as rose 

That in the King's own garden grows; 

And when I place it in my hair, 

Allan, a bard is bound to swear 

He ne'er saw coronet so fair." 

Then playfully the chaplet wild 

She wreath'd in her dark locks, and smiled. 



Her smile, her speech, with winning sway. 
Wiled the old harper's mood away. 
With such a look as hermits throw. 
When angels stoop to soothe their woe, 
He gazed, till fond regret and pride 
Thrill'd to a tear, then thus replied : 
" Loveliest and best ! thou little know'st 
The rank, the honors, thou hast lost ! 
O might I live to see thee grace. 
In Scotland's court, thy birth-right place, 
To see my favorite's step advance, 
The lightest in the courtly dance. 
The cause of every gallant's sigh, 
And leading star of every eye, 
And theme of every minstrel's art. 
The lady of the Bleeding Heart ! " * — 



" Fair dreams are these," the maiden cried 
(Light was her accent, yet she sigh'd;) 
'■ Yet in this mossy rock to me 
Worth splendid chair and canopy ; 
Nor would my footsteps spring more gay 
In courtly dance than blithe strathspey, 
Nor half so pleased mine ear incline 
To royal minstrel's lay as thine. 
And then for suitors proud and high. 
To bend before my conquering eye, — 
Thou, flattering bard ! thyself wilt say, 
That grim Sir Roderick owns its sway. 
The Saxon scourge, Clan-Alpine's pride, 
The terror of Loch Lomond's side. 
Would, at my suit, thou know'st, delay 
A Lennox foray — for a day." — 



The ancient bard her glee repress'd : 
" 111 hast thou chosen theme for jest ! 



* The cognizance of the Douglas family. 





I20 



SCOTTS POETICAL WORKS. 



For who, through all this western wild, 

Named Black Sir Roderick e'er, and smiled ! 

In Holy-Rood a knight he slew ; '^ 

I saw, when back the dirk he drew. 

Courtiers give place before the stride 

Of the undaunted homicide ; 

And since, though outlaw'd, hath his hand 

Full sternly kept his mountain land. 

Who else dared give — ah I woe the day. 

That I 'such hated truth should say — 

The Douglas, like a stricken deer, 

Disown'd by every noble peer,'' 

Even the rude refuge we have here? 

Alas, this wild marauding Chief 

Alone might hazard our relief, 

And now thy maiden charms expand. 

Looks for his guerdon in thy hand ; 

Full soon may dispensation sought, 

To back his suit, from Rome be brought 

Then, though an exile on the hill, 

Thy father, as the Douglas, still 

Be held in reverence and fear ; 

And though to Roderick thou'rt so dear. 

That thou might'st guide with silken thread. 

Slave of thy will, this chieftain dread ; 

Yet, O loved maid, thy mirth refrain 1 

Thy hand is on a lion's mane." — 



" Minstrel," the maid replied, and high 
Her father's soul glanced from her eye, 
" My debts to Roderick's house 1 know : 
All that a mother could bestow. 
To Lady Margaret's care I owe. 
Since first an orphan in the wild 
She sorrow'd o'er her sister's child ; 
To her brave chieftain son, from ire 
Of Scotland's king who shrouds my sire, 
A deeper, holier debt is owed ; 
And, could I pay it with my blood, 
Allan ! Sir Roderick should command 
My blood, my life, — but not my hand. 
Rather will Ellen Douglas dwell 
A votaress in Maronnan's cell ; '^ 
Rather through realms beyond the sea. 
Seeking the world's cold charity, 
Where ne'er was spoke a Scottish word. 
And ne'er the name of Douglas heard, 
An outcast pilgrim will slie rove, 
Than wed the man she cannot love. 



" Thou shakest, good friend, thy tresses 

gray- 
That pleading look, v/hat can it say 



But what I own ? — I grant him brave, 

But wild as Bracklinn's thundering wave ; ^' 

And generous — save vindictive mood. 

Or jealous transport, chafe his blood ; 

I grant him true to friendly band, 

As his claymore is to his hand ; 

But O ! that very blade of steel 

More mercy for a foe would feel : 

I grant him liberal, to fling 

Among his clan the wealth they bring, 

When back by lake and glen they wind. 

And in the Lowland leave behind. 

Where once some pleasant hamlet stoodj 

A mass of ashes slaked with blood. 

The hand that for my father fought, 

1 honor, as his daughter ought ; 

But can 1 clasp it reeking red 

From peasants slaughter'd in their shed ? 

No ! wildly while his virtues gleam. 

They make his passions darker seem. 

And flash along his spirit high, 

Like lightning o'er the midnight sky. 

While yet a child, — and children know. 

Instinctive taught, the friend and foe, — 

I shudder'd at his brow of gloom. 

His shadowy plaid, and sable plume ; 

A maiden grown, I ill could bear 

His haughty mien and lordly air : 

But, if thou join'st a suitor's claim, 

In serious mood, to Roderick's name, 

I thrill with anguish 1 or, if e'er 

A Douglas knew the word, with fear. 

To change such odious theme were best, — 

What think'st thou of our stranger guest? "— 



" What think I of him ?^ — woe the while 
That brought sucli wanderer to our isle f 
Thy father's battle-brand, of yore 
For Tine-man forged by fairy lore," 
What time he leagued, no longer foes, 
His border spears with Hotspyr's. bows 
Did, self-unscabbarded, foreshow 
The footstep of a secret foe. '9 
If courtly spy hath harbor'd here, 
What may we for the Douglas fear ? 
What for this island, deem'd of old 
Clan-.A.lpine's last and surest hold? 
If neither spy nor foe, I pray. 
What yet may jealous Roderick say ? 
— Nay, wave not thy disdainful head 
Bethink thee of the discord dread 
That kindled, when at Beltane game 
Thou ledst the dance with Malcolm 
Graime ; 







=Nr 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



Still, though thy sire the peace renew'd, 
Smoulders in Rodericli's breast the feud ; 
Beware I — But hark, what sounds are these ? 
My dull ears catch no faltering breeze, 
No weeping birch nor aspens wake, 
Nor breath is dimpling m the lake, 
Still is the canna's * hoary beard. 
Yet, by my minstrel faith, I heard — 
And hark again ! some pipe of war 
Sends the bold pibroch from afar." 



Far up the lengthen'd lake were spied 
Four darkening specks upon the tide, 
That, slow enlarging on the view, 
Four mann'd and masted barges grew, 
And, bearing downwards from Glengyle, 
Steer'd full upon the lonely isle ; 
The point of Brianchoil they pass'd. 
And, to the windward as they cast. 
Against the sun they gave to shine 
The bold Sir Roderick's banner'd Pine. 
Nearer and nearer as they bear. 
Spear, pikes, and axes flash in air. 
Now might you see the tartans brave. 
And plaids and plumage dance and wave : 
Now see the bonnets sink and rise, 
As his tougli oar the rower plies ; 
See, flashing at each sturdy stroke, 
The wave ascending into smoke; 
See the proud pipers on the bow, 
And mark the gaudy streamers flow 
From their loud chanters t down, and sweep 
The furrow'd bosom of the deep, 
As, rushing through the lake amain. 
They plied the ancient Highland strain 



Ever, as on they bore, more loud 

And louder rung the pibroch proud. 

At first the sound, by distance tame, 

Mellow'd along the waters came. 

And, lingering long by cape and bay, 

Wail'd every harsher note away ; 

Then burstmg bolder on the ear, 

The clan's shrill Gathering they could hear ; 

Those thrilling sounds, that call the might 

Of old Clan-Alpine to the fight.^" 

Thick beat the rapid notes, as when 

The mustering hundreds shake the glen, 

And, hurrying at the signal dread, 

The batter'd earth returns their tread. 



* Cotton grass. 
*• The pipe ot the bagpipe. 



Then prelude light, of livelier tone, 
Express'd their merry marchmg on, 
Ere peal of closing battle rose. 
With mingled outcry, shrieks, and blows ; 
And mimic din of stroke and ward, 
As broadsword upon target jarr'd ; 
And groaning pause, ere yet again. 
Condensed, the battle ycll'd amain ; 
The rapid charge, the rallying shout, 
Retreat borne headlong into rout, 
And bursts of triumph, to declare 
Clan-Alpine's conquest — all were there 
Nor ended thus the strain ; but slow, 
Sunk in a moan prolong'd and low. 
And changed the conquermg clarion swell, 
For wild lament o'er those that fell. 



The war-pipes ceased ; but lake and hill 
Were busy with their echoes still ; 
And, when they slept, a vocal strain 
Bade their hoarse chorus wake again, 
While loud a hundred clansmen raise 
Their voices in their Chieftain's praiae. 
Each boatman, bending to his oar, 
With measured sweep the burden bore, 
In such wild cadence, as the breeze 
Makes through December's leafless trees. 
The chorus first could Allan know, 
" Roderick Vich Alpine, ho ! iro ! '' 
And near, and nearer as they row'd, 
Distinct the martial dittv flow'd. 



BOAT SOXG. 

Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances i 
Honor'd and bless'd be the ever-^reen 
Pine ! 
Long may the tree, in his banner that 
glances, 
Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line ! 
Heaven send it happy dew, 
Earth lend it sap anew, 
Gayly to bourgeon, and broadly to grow, 
While every Highland glen 
Sends our shout back agen, 
" Roderigh Vich Alpine dhti, ho ! ieroe 1' " 

Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the 
fountain. 
Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fac'.c ; 
When the vi-hirlwind has stripp'd every leaf 
on the mountain, 
The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her 
shade. 



'W 




SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



^ 



Moor'd in the rifted rock, 

Proof to tlie tempest's shod;, 
Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow ; 

Menteith and Breadalbane, then, 

Echo his praise agen, 
" Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! ieroe ! ' 



Proudly our pibroch * has thrill'd in Glen 
Fruin, 
And Bannochar's groans to our slogan f 
replied ; 
Glen Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking 
in ruin. 
And the best of Loch Lomond lie dead 
on her side. 

Widow and Saxon maid 
Long shall lament our raid. 
Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with 
woe ; 

Lennox and Leven-glen 
Shake when they hear agen, 
" Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! ieroe ! " 

Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the High- 
lands ! 
Stretch to your oars, for the ever-green 
Pine ! 
O ! that the rose-bud that graces yon islands, 
Were wreathed in a garland around him 
to twine ! 

O that some seedling gem, 
Worthy such noble stem, 
■ Honor'd andbless'din their shadow might 
grow ! 

Loud should Clan-Alpine then 
Ring from the deepmost glen, 
'• Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! ieroe ! "' 



With all her joyful female band. 

Had Lady Margaret sought the strand. 

Loose on the breeze their tresses flew, 

And high their snowy arms they threw. 

As echoing back with shrill acclaim, 

And chorus wild, the Chieftain's name ; 

While, prompt to please, with mother's art. 

The darling passion of his heart, 

The Dame call'd Ellen to the strand, 

To greet her kinsman ere he land : 

" Come, loiterer, come ! a Douglas thou, 

And shun to wreathe a victor's brow ? " — 

Reluctantly and slow, the maid 

The unwelcome summoning obey'd, 

* Bagpipe air belonging to a clan, 
t Slogan, a war-cry. 



<M- 



And, when a distant bugle rung, 

'In the mid-path aside she sprung : — 

" List, Allan-Bane ! From mainland cast 

I hear my father's signal blast. 

Be ours," she cried, '" the skiff to guide, 

And waft him from the mountain side." 

Then, like a sunbeam, swift and bright, 

She darted t& her shallop light. 

And, eagerly while Roderick scann'd, 

For her dear form, his mother's band, 

The islet far behind her lay. 

And she had landed in the bay. 



Some feelings are to mortals given. 

With less of earth in them tiian heaven : 

And if there be a human tear 

From passion's dross refined and clear, 

A tear so limpid and so meek, 

It would not stain an angel's cheek, 

'Tis that which pious fathers shed 

Upon a duteous daughter's head .' 

And as the Douglas to his breast 

His darling Ellen closely press'd. 

Such holy drops her tresses steep'd, 

Though 'twas a hero's eye that weep'd. 

Nor while on Ellen's faltering tongue 

Her filial welcomes crowded hung, 

Mark'd she, that fear (affection's proof) 

Still held a graceful youth aloof ; 

No ! not till Douglas named his name. 

Although the youth was Malcolm Graeme, 



Allan, with wistful look the while, 

Mark'd Roderick landing on the isle ; 

His master piteously he eyed. 

Then gazed upon the Chieftain's pride. 

Tlien dash'd, with hasty hand, away 

From his dimm'd eye the gathering sprajf : 

And Douglas, as his hand he laid 

On Malcolm's shoulder, kindly said, 

" Canst thou, young friend, no meaning spy 

In my poor follower's glistening eye ? 

I'll tell thee : — he recalls the day. 

When in my praise he led the lay 

O'er the arch'd gate of Bothwell proud. 

While many a minstrel answer'd lou:l, 

Wlien Percy's Norman pennon, won 

In bloody field, before me shone. 

And twice ten knights, the least a name 

As mighty as }'on Chief may claim. 

Gracing my pomp, behind me came. 

Yet trust me, Malcolm, not so proud 

Was I of all that ni-^rshaU'd crowd. 






THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



123 



Though the waned crescent own'd my 

might, 
And in my train troop'd lord and knight, 
Though Blantyre hymn'd her hohest lays, 
And Bothwell's bards flung back my praise, 
As when this old man's silent tear, 
And this poor maid's affection dear, 
A welcome give more kind and true, 
Than aught my better fortunes knew. 
Forgive, my friend, a father's boast, 
O ! it out-begffars all I lost ! " 



Delightful praise ! — Like summer rose. 
That brighter in the dew-drop glows, 
The bashful maiden's cheek appear'd, 
For Douglas spoke, and Malcolm heard. 
The flush of shame-faced joy to hide, 
The hounds, the hawk, her cares divide ; 
The loved caresses of the maid 
The dogs with crouch and whimper paid ," 
And, at her whistle, on her hand 
The falcon took her favorite stand, 
Closed his dark wing, relax'd his eye. 
Nor, though unhooded, sought to fly. 
And, trust, while in such guise she stood, 
Like fabled Goddess of the wood. 
That if a father's partial thought 
O'erweigh'dher worth and beauty aught, 
Well might the lover's judgment fail 
To balance with a juster scale ; 
For with each secret glance he stole, 
The fond enthusiast sent his souL 

XXV. 

Of stature tall, and slender frame, 
But firmly knit, was Malcolm Grseme. 
The belted plaid and tartan hose 
Did ne'er more graceful limbs disclose ; 
His flaxen hair of sunny hue, 
Curl'd closely round his bonnet blue. 
Train'd to the chase, his eagle eye 
The ptarmigan in snow could spy : 
Each pass, by mountain, lake, and heath. 
He knew, through Lennox and Menteith • 
Vain was the bound of dark-brown doe. 
When Malcolm bent his sounding bow, 
And scarce that doe, though wing'd with 

fear, 
Outstripp'd in speed the mountaineer : 
Right up Ben-Lomond could he press. 
And not a sob his toil confess. 
His form accorded with a mind 
Lively and ardent, frank and kind ; 
A blither heart, till Ellen came, 
Did never love nor sorrow tame ; 
It danced as lightsome in his breast, 



As play'd the feather on his crest. 
Yet friends who nearest knew the youth, 
His scorn of wrong, his zeal for truth, 
And bards, who saw his features bold, 
When kindled by the tales of old. 
Said, were that youth to manhood grown, 
Not long should Roderick Dhu's renown 
Be foremost voiced by mountain fame, 
But quail to that of Malcolm Gra:me. 

XXVI. 

Now back they wend their watery way 
And, " O my sire ! " did Ellen say, 
" why urge thy chase so far astray ? 
And why so late return'd ? And why— " 
The rest was in her sparkling eye. 
" My child, the chase I follow far, 
'Tis mimicry of noble war ; 
And with that gallant pastime reft, 
Were all of Douglas I have left. 
I met young Malcolm as 1 stray'd 
Far eastward, in Glenfinlas' shade. 
Nor stray'd I safe : for, all around, 
Hunters and horsemen scour'd the ground, 
This youth, though still a royal ward, 
Risk'd life and land to be my guard, 
A.nd through the passes of the wood. 
Guided my steps not unpursued; 
And Roderick shall his welcome make, 
Despite old spleen, for Douglas' sake. 
Then must he seek Strath-Endrick glen, 
Nor peril aught for me agen." 

XXVII. 

Sir Roderick, who to meet them came, 
Redden'd at sight of Malcolm Graeme, 
Yet, not in action, word, or eye, 
Fail'd aught in hospitality. 
In talk and sport they wiled away 
The morning of that summer day ; 
But at high noon a courier light 
Held secret parley with the knight. 
Whose moody aspect soon declared^ 
That evil were the nevi^s he heard. 
Deep thought seem'd toiling in his head ; 
Yet was the evening banquet made. 
Ere he assembled round the flame. 
His mother, Douglas, and the Gramme, 
And Ellen, too ; then cast around 
His eyes, then fLx'd them on the ground. 
As studying phrase that might avail 
Best to convey unpleasant tale. 
Long with his dagger's hilt he play'd, 
Then raised his haughty brow and said :- 



" Short be my speech ; — nor time affords 
Nor my plain temper, glozing words. 






124 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORK. 



Kinsman and father,— if such name 
Douglas vouchsafe to Roderick's claim ; 
Mine honored mother ; — Ellen— why, 
My cousin, turn away thine eye ? — 
And Graeme ; in whom I hope to know 
Full soon a noble friend or foe, 
When age shall give thee thy command, 
And leading in thy native land, — 
List all ! — The King's vindictive pride 
Boasts to have tamed the Border-side, 
Where chiefs, with hound and hawk who 

came 
To share their monarch's sylvan game. 
Themselves in bloody toils were snared ; 
And when the bancjuet they prepared, 
And wide their loyal portals flung, 
O'er their own gateway struggling hung. 
Loud cries their blood from Meggat's mead. 
From Yarrow braes, and banks of Tweed, 
Where the lone streams of Ettrick glide. 
And from the silver Teviot's side ; 
The dales, where martial clans did ride, 
Are now one sheep-walk, waste and wide. 
This tyrant of the Scottish throne, 
So faithless and so ruthless known. 
Now hither comes ; his end the same, 
The same pretext of sylvan game. 
What grace for Highland Chiefs, judge ye 
By fate of Border chivalry. 
Yet more ; amid Glenfinlas green, 
Douglas, thy stately form was seen. 
This by espial sure I know ; 
Your counsel in the streight I show." 



Ellen and Margaret fearfully 

Sought comfort in each other's eye, 

Then turn'd their ghastly look, each one, 

This to her sire — that to her son. 

The hasty color went and came 

In the bold clieek of Malcolm Graeme , 

But from his glance it well appeared, 

'Twas but for Ellen that he fear'd ; 

While sorrowful, but undismay'd, 

The Douglas thus his counsel said : — 

•' Brave Roderick, though the tempest roar, 

It may but thunder and pass o'er ; 

Nor will I here remain an hour, 

To draw the ligiitning on thy bower ; 

For well thou know'st, at this gray head 

The royal bolt were fiercest sped. 

For thee, who, at thy King's command, 

Canst aid him with a gallant band, 

Submission, homage, humbled pride, 

Shall turn the Monarch's wrath aside. 

Poor remnants of the Bleeding Heart, 

Ellen and 1 will seek, apart, 



The refuge of some forest cell. 
There, like the hunted quarry, dwell. 
Till on the mountain and tlu moor, 
The stern pursuit be pass'd and o'er." 

XXX. 

" No, by mine honor,'' Roderick said, 

" So help me, heaven, and my good blade 1 

No, never I Blasted be yon Pine, 

My fathers' ancient crest and mine, 

If from its shade in danger part 

The lineage of the Bleeding Heart ! 

Hear my blunt speech : Grant me this maio 

To wife, thy counsel to mine aid ; 

To Douglas, leagued with Roderick Dhu 

Will friends and allies flock enow ; 

Like cause of doubt, distrust, and grief, 

Will bind to us each Western Chief. 

When the loud pipes my bridal tell, 

The Links of Forth shall hear the knell, 

The guards shall start in Stirling's porch ; 

And, when I light the nuptial torch, 

A tliousand villages in flames, 

Shall scare the slumbers of King James ! 

— Nay, Ellen, blench not thus away. 

And, mother, cease these signs I pray ; 

I meant not all my heat might say. — 

Small need of inroad, orot fight. 

When the sage Douglas may unite 

Each mountain clan in friendly band, 

To guard the passes of their land, 

Till the foil'd king, from pathless glen, 

Shall bootless turn him home agen." 

XXXI. 

There are who liave, at midnight hour, 
In slumber scaled a dizzy tower. 
And, on the verge that beetled o'er 
The ocean-tide'vs incessant roar, 
Dream'd calmly out their dangerous dream, 
Till waken'd by the morning beam ; 
When, dazzled by the eastern glow, 
Such startler cast his glance below. 
And saw unmeasured depth around, 
And heard unintermitted sound. 
And thought the battled fence so frail, 
It waved like cobweb in the gale ; 
Amid his senses' giddy wheel. 
Did he not desperate impulse feel. 
Headlong to plunge himself below. 
And meet the worst his fears foreshow ?— 
Thus, Ellen, dizzy and astound, 
As sudden ruin yawn'd around. 
By crossing terrors wildly toss'd, 
Still for the Douglas fearing most. 
Could scarce the desperate thought with- 
stand 
To buy his safety with her hand 







THE LADY OF THE LAKE 



^25 



Such purpose dread could Malcolm spy 

In Ellen's quivering lip and eye, 

And eager rose to speak — but ere 

His tongue could hurry forth his fear, 

Had Douglas mark'd the hectic strife, 

Where death seem'd combatting with life ; 

For to her cheek, in feverish flood, 

One instant rush'd the throbbing blood. 

Then ebbing back, with sudden sway. 

Left its domain as wan as clay. 

" Roderick, enough ! enough ! " he cried, 

" My daughter cannot be thy bride ; 

Not that the blush to wooer dear, 

Nor paleness that of maiden fear. 

It may not be — forgive her. Chief, 

Nor hazard aught for our relief. 

Against his sovereign, Douglas ne'er 

Will level a rebellious spear. 

'Twas I that taught his youthful hand 

To rein a steed and wield a brand ; 

I see him yet, the princely boy ! 

Not Ellen more my pride and joy ; 

I love him still, despite my wrongs, 

By hasty wrath, and slanderous tongues. 

O seek the grace you well may find, 

Without a cause to mine combined." 



Twice through the hall the Chieftain strode ; 
The waving of his tartans broad. 
And darken'd brow, where wounded pride 
With ire and disappointment vied, 
Seem'd, by the torcii's gloomy light, 
Like the ill Demon of the night, 
Stooping his pinions' shadowy sway 
Upon the nighted pilgrim's way : 
But, unrequited Love ! thy dart 
Plunged deepest its envenom'd smart, 
And Roderick, with thine anguish stung. 
At length the hand of Douglas wrung. 
While eyes, that mock'd at tears before, 
With bitter drops were running o'er. 
The death-pangs of long-cherish'd hope 
Scarce in that ample breast had scope, 
But, struggling with his spirit proud. 
Convulsive heaved its checker'd shroud. 
While every sob — so mute were all — 
Was heard distinctly through the hall. 
The son's despair, the mother's look, 
111 might the gentle Ellen brook ; 
She rose, and to her side there came. 
To aid her parting steps, the Graeme 

XXXIV. 

Then Roderick from the Douglas broke — 
As flashes flame through sable smoke. 



Kindling its wreaths, long, dark, and low. 

To one broad blaze of ruddy glow, 

So the deep anguish of despair 

Burst, in fierce jealousy, to air. 

With stalwart grasp his hand he laid 

On Malcolm's breast and belted plaid -. 

" Back, beardless boy ! " he sternly said, 

" Back, minion ! hold'st thou thus at naught 

The lesson I so lately taught ? 

This roof, the Douglas, and that maid. 

Thank thou for punishment delay'd.'' 

Eager as greyhound on his game, 

Fiercely with Roderick grappled Grseme 

•' Perish my name, if aught afford 

Its Chieftain safety save his sword ! " 

Thus, as they strove, their desperate hand 

Griped to the dagger or the brand. 

And death had been — but Douglas rose. 

And thrust between the struggling foes 

His giant strength : — " Chieftains, forego ! 

I hold the first who strikes, my foe. — 

Madmen, forbear your frantic jar ! 

What ! is the Douglas fall'n so far, 

His daughter's hand is deem'd the spoil 

Of such dishonorable broil ! " 

Sullen and slowly they unclasp. 

As struck with shame, their desperate 

grasp. 
And each upon his rival glared. 
With foot advanced, and blade half bared. 



Ere yet the brands aloft were flung, 
Margaret on Roderick's mantle hung. 
And Malcolm heard his Ellen's scream. 
As falter'd through terrific dream. 
Then Roderick plunged in sheath his sword. 
And veird his wrath in scornful word. 
" Rest safe till morning ; pity 'twere 
Such cheek should feel the midnight air ! 
Then mayest thou to James Stuart tell, 
Roderick will keep the lake and fell, 
Nor lackey, with his freeborn clan, 
The pageant pomp of earthly man. 
More would he of Clan-Alpine know, 
Thou canst our strength and passes show,-- 
Malise, what ho ! " — his henchman came ; * 
" Give our safe-conduct to the Graeme." 
Young Malcolm answer'd, calm and bold. 
'' Fear nothing for thy favorite hold ; 
The spot an angel deign'd to grace 
Is bless'd, though robbers haunt the place. 



* A henchman was the confidential attendant 
or gilly of a chief. His standing behind hio 
lord at festivals originated the name of haunch- 
raan or henchman. 




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126 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 






Thy churlish courtesy for those 


Fast as the cormorant could skim, 




Reserve, who fear to be thy foes. 


The swimmei plied each active limb| 






As safe to me the monntain wa}' 


Then landing in the moonlight dell, 




' 


At midnight as in blaze of day, 


Loud shouted of his weal to tell. 






Though with his boldest at his back 


The Minstrel heard the far halloo. 






Even Roderick Dhu beset the track.- 


And joyful from the shore withdi-ew. 






Bravc Douglas, — lovely Ellen, — nay, 
Nought here of parting will I say. 












Earth does not hold a lonesome glen, 


CANTO THIRD. 






So secret, but we meet agen. — 








Chieftain ! we too shall find an hour." 


THE GATHERING 






He said, and left the sylvan bower. 


I. 






• XXXVI. 


Time rolls his ceaseless course. The race 






Old Allan follow'd to the strand, 


of yore. 






(Such was the Douglas's command, ) 


Who danced our infancy upon theii 






And anxious told, how, on the morn. 


knee. 






The stern Sir Roderick deep had sworn, 


And told our marvelling boyhood legends 






The Fiery Cross should circle o'er 


store. 






Dale, glen, and valley, down, and moor. 


Of their strange ventures happ'd by land 






Much were the peril to the Graeme, 


or sea. 






From those who to the signal came ; 


How are they blotted from the things that 






Far up the lake 'twere safest land. 


be! 






Himself would row him to the strand. 


How few, all weak, and wither'd of their 






He gave his ccunsel to the wind. 


force, 






While Malcolm did, unheeding, bind. 


Wait on the verge of dark eternity. 






Round dirk and pouch and broadsword 


Like stranded wrecks, the tide returning 






roU'd, 


hoarse. 






His ample plaid in tighten 'd fold. 


To sweep them from our sight ! Time 






And stripp'd his limbs to such array. 


rolls his ceaseless course. 






As best might suit the watery way, — 


Yet live there still who can remember well, 
How, when a mountain chief his bugle 






XXXVII. 


blew. 






Then spoke abrupt : " Farewell to thee, 


Both field and forest, dingle, cliff, and dell. 






Pattern of old fidelity ! " 


And solitary heath, the signal knew ; 






The Minstrel's hand he kindly press'd, — 


And fast the faithful clan around him drew. 






" 1 could I point a place of rest ! 


What time the warning note was keenly 






My sovereign holds in ward my land. 


wound. 






My uncle leads my vassal band ; 


What time aloft their kindred banner flew. 






To tame his foes, his friends to aid. 


While clamorous war-pipes yell'd the 






Poor Malcolm has but heart and blade, 


gathering sound. 






Yet, if there be one faithful Grreme, 


And while the Fiery Cross glanced like a 






Who loves the Chieftain of his name. 


meteor round.-- 






Not long shall honor'd Douglas dwell, 








Like hunted stag in mountain cell ; 


II. 






Nor, ere yon pride-swoll'n robber dare— 


The Summer dawn's reflected hue 






I may not give the rest to air ! 


To purple changed Loch Katrine blue ; 






Tell Roderick Dhu, I owed liim nought. 


Mildly and soft the western breeze 






Not the poor service of a boat. 


Just kiss'd the lake. Just stirr'd the trees, 






To wait me to yon mountain-side." 


And the pleased lake, like maiden coy, 






Then plunged he in the flashing tide. 


Trembled but dimpled not for joy ; 






Bold o'er the flood his head he bore. 


The mountain-shadows on her breast 






And stoutly steer'd him from the shore: 


Were neither broken nor at rest ; . 


^ 




And Allan strain'd his anxious eye. 


In bright uncertainty they lie. 






Far 'mid the lake his form to spy. 


Like future joys, to Fancy's e5'e. 






Darkening across each puny wave 


The water-lily to the light 






To which the moon her silver gave. 


Her chalice rear'd of silver bright ; 




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THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 127 






The doe awoke, and to the lawn, 


His cave the pilgrim shunn'd with care. 




Begemm'd with dew-drops, led her fawn ; 
1 The gray mist left the mountain-side, 


The eager huntsman knew his bound. 






And in mid chase call'd off his hound ; 






The torrent show'd its glistening pride ; 


Or if, in lonely glen or strath, 






Invisible in flecked sky, 


The desert-dweller met his path. 






The lark sent down her revelry ; 


He pray'd, and sign "d the cross between, 






The blackbird and the speckled thrush 


While terror took devotion's mien. 






Good-morrow gave from brake and bush ; 








In answer coo'd the cushat dove 


V. 






Her notes of peace, and rest, and love. 


Of Brian's birch strange tales were told • ^'^ 
His mother watch'd a midniglit fold, 






HI. 


Built deep within a dreary glen, 






No thought of peace, no thought of rest, 


Where scatter'd lay the bones of men, 






Assuaged the storm in Roderick's breast. 


In some forgotten battle slain. 






With sheat'ied broadsword in his hand, 


And bleach'd by drifting wind and rain. 






Abrupt he paced the islet strand, 


It might have tamed a warrior's heart. 






And eyed the rising sun, and laid 


To view such mockery of his art ! 






His hand on his impatient blade. 


The knot-grass fetter'd there the hand. 






Beneath a rock, his vassals' care 


Which once could burst an iron band ; 






Was prompt the ritual to prepare, 


Beneath the broad and ample bone. 






With deep and deathful meaning fraught ; 


That buckler'd heart to fear unknown, 






For such Antiquity had taught 


A feeble and a timorous guest. 






Was preface meet, ere yet abroad 


The field-fare framed her lowly nest, 






The Cross of Fire should take its road. 


There the slow blind-worm left his slime, 






The shrinking band stood oft aghast 


On the fleet limbs that mock'd at time ; 






At the impatient glance he cast ; — 


And there, too, lay the leader's skull. 






Such glance the mountain eagle threw, 


Still wreathed with chaplet, flush'd and full 






As from the cliffs of Benvenue, 


For heath-bell with her purple bloom 






She spread her dark sails on the wincV, 


Supplied the bonnet and the plume. 






And, high in middle heaven, reclined. 


All night, in this sad glen, the maid 






With her broad shadow on the lake, 


Sate, shrouded in her mantle's shade : 






Silenced the warblers of the brake. 


— She said, no shepherd soughther side, 
No hunter's hand her snood untied, 






IV. 


Yet ne'er again to braid her hair 






A heap of wither'd boughs was piled, 


The virgin snood did Alice wear ; ^^ 






Of juniper and rowan wild, 


Gone was her maiden glee and sport, 






Mingled with shivers from the oak. 


Her maiden girdle all too short, 






Rent by the lightning's recent stroke 


Nor sought she, from that fatal night, 






Brian, the Hermit, by it stood. 


Or holy church or blessed rite, 






Barefooted, in his frock and hood. 


But lock'd her secret in her breast. 






His grisled beard and matted hair 


And died in travail, unconfess'd. 






Obscured a visage of despair ; 








His naked arms and legs, seam'd o'er. 


VI. 






The scars of frantic penance bore. 


Alone, among liis young compeers. 






That monk, of savage form and face,=3 


Was Brian from his infant years ; 






That impending danger of his race 


A moody and heart-broken boy, 






Had drawn from deepest solitude. 


Estranged from sympathy and joy. 






Far in Benharrow's bosom rude. 


Bearing each taunt which careless tongue 






Not his the mien of Christian priest. 


On his mysterious lineage flung. 






But Druid's, from the grave released, 


Whole nights he spent by moonlight pale 






Whose harden'd heart and eye might brook 


To wood and stream his hap to wail, 






On human sacrifice to look ; 


Till, frantic, he as truth received 






^ n And much, 'twas said, of heathen lore 


What of his birth the crowd believed, T 


■» 




Mix'd in the charms he mutter'd o'er. 


And sought, in mist and meteor fire. 






The hallow'd creed gave only worse 


To meet "and know his Phantom Sire 1 






And deadlier emphasis of curse ; 


In vain, to soothe his wayward fate, 






No peasant sought that Hermit's prayer, 


The cloister ooed her pitying gate 








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128 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



In vain, the learning of the age 

Unclasp'd the sable-letter'd page ; 

Even in its treasures he could find 

Food for the fever of liis mind. 

Eager he read whatever tells 

Of magic, cabala, ?nd spells, 

And every dark pursuit allied 

To curious and presumptuous pride ; 

Till with fired brain and nerves o'erstrung, 

And heart with mystic horrors wrung. 

Desperate he sought Benharrow's den. 

And hid him from the Inunts of men. 

VII. 

The desert gave him visions wild, 

Such as might suit the spectre's child. 

Where with black cliffs the torrents toil. 

He watcli'd the wheeling eddies boil, 

Till, from their foam, his dazzled eyes 

Beheld the River Demon rise ; 

The mountain mist took form and limb. 

Of noontide hag, or goblin grim ; 

The midnight wind came wild and dread, 

Swell'd with the voices of the dead ; 

Far on the future battle-heath 

His eye beheld the ranks of death : 

Thus the lone Seer, from mankind hurl'd, 

Shaped forth a disembodied world. 

One lingering sympathy of mind 

Still bound him to the mortal kind ; 

The only parent he could claim 

Of ancient Alpine's lineage came. 

Late had he heard, in prophet's dream. 

The fatal Ben-Shie's boding scream ; ^^ 

Sounds, too, had come in midnight blast, 

Of charging steeds, careering fast 

Along Benharrow's shingly side. 

Where mortal horsemen ne'er might ride ; ^^ 

The thunderbolt had split the pine, — 

All augur'd ill to Alpine's line. 

He girt his loins, and came to show 

The signals of impending v/oe, 

And now stood prompt to bless or ban, 

Ag bade the Chieftain of his clan. 

via. 
'Twas all prepared : — and from the rock, 
A goat, the patriarch of the flock, 
Before the kindling pile was laid, 
And pierced by Roderick's ready blade. 
Patient the sickening victim eyed 
The life-blood ebb in crimson tide, 
Down his clogg'd beard and shaggy limb, 
Till darkness glazed his eyeballs dim. 
The grisly priest, with murmuring prayer, 
A slender crosslet forni'd with care, 
A cubit's length in measure due ; 
The shaft and limbs were rods of yew, 



Whose parents in Inch-Cailliach wave 
Their shadows o'er Clan-Alpine's grave, 
And, answering Lomond's breezes deep, 
Soothe many a chieftain's endless sleep. 
The Cross, thus form'd, he held on high, 
With wasted hand, and haggard eve, 
And strange and mingled feelings woke. 
While his anathema he spoke. 



" Woe to the clansman, who shall view 
This symbol of sepulchral yew. 
Forgetful that its branches grev/ 
Where weep the heavens their holiest dew. 

On Alpine's dwelling low ! 
Deserter of his Chieftain's trust. 
He ne'er shall mingle m 'th their dust. 
But, from his sires and kindred thrust, 
Each clansman's execration just 

Shall doom him wrath and woe ! '' 
He paused ; — the word the vassals took, 
With forward step and fiery look. 
On high their naked brands they shook, 
Their clattering targets wildly strook ; 

And first in murmur low. 
Then, like the billow in his course. 
That far to seaward finds his source. 
And flings to shore his muster'd force, 
Burst, with loud roar, their answer hoarse, 

" Woe to the traitor, woe ! " 
Ben-an's gray scalp the accents knew, 
The Joyous wolf from covert drew. 
The exulting eagle scream'd afar, — 
They knew the voice of Alpine's war 



The shout was hush'd on lake and fell. 
The monk resumed his mutter'd spell : 
Dismal and low its accents came. 
The while he scathed the Cross with flame 
And the few words that reach'd the air, 
Although the holiest name was there, 
Had more of blasphemy than prayer. 
But when he shook above the crowd 
Its kindled points, he spoke aloud : — 
" Woe to the wretch who fails to rear 
At this dread sign tiie ready spear ! 
For, as the flames this symbol sear. 
His home, the refuge of his fear, 

A kindred fate shall know ; 
Far o'er its roof the volumed flame 
Clan-Alpine's vengeance shall proclaim, 
While maids and matrons on his name 
Shall call down wretchedness and sliame. 

And infamy and woe." 
Then rose the cry of females shrill 
As goss-hawk's whistle on the hill, 



^^3S 





THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



i2g 



Denouncing misery and ill, 

Mingled with childhood's babbling trill 

Of curses stammer' d slow ; 
Answering, with imprecation dread, 
" Sunk be his home in embers red ! 
And cursed be the meanest shed 
That e'er shall hide the houseless head, 

We doom to want and woe 1 " 
A. sharp and shrieking echo gave, 
Coir-Uriskin, thy goblin cave ! 
And the gray pass where birches wave, 

On Beala-nam-bo. 

XI. 

Then deeper paused the priest anew. 
And hard his laboring breath he drew. 
While, with set teeth and clenched hand, 
And eyes that glow'd like fiery brand, 
He meditated curse more dread. 
And deadlier, on the clansman's head, 
Who, summon'd to his Chieftain's aid, 
The signal saw and disobey'd. 
The crosslet's points of sparkling wood. 
He quench'd among the bubbling blood, 
And, as again the sign he rear'd. 
Hollow and hoarse his voice was heard : 
" When flits this Cross from man to man, 
Vich-Aipine's summons to his clan. 
Burst be the ear that fails to heed ! 
Palsied the foot that shuns to speed ! 
May ravens tear the careless eyes, 
Wolves make the coward heart their prize ! 
As sinks that blood-stream in the earth. 
So may his heart's-blood drench his hearth ! 
As dies in hissing gore the spark. 
Quench thou his light. Destruction dark, 
And be the grace to him denied. 
Bought by this sign to all beside 1 " 
He ceased ; no echo gave agen 
The murmur of the deep Amen 

XII. 

Then Roderick, with impatient look. 

From Brian's hand the symbol took : 

" Speed, Malise, speed ! '' he said, and gave 

The crosslet to his henchman brave. 

■' The muster-place be Lanrick mead — 

fnstant the time — speed, Malise, speed ! " 

Like heath-bird when the hawks pursue, 

A barge across Loch Katrine flew ; 

High stood the henchman on the prow ; 

So rapidly the barge-inen row. 

The bubbles, where they launched the boat. 

Were all unbroken and afloat. 

Dancing in foam and ripple still, 

When it had near'd the mainland hill ; 

And from the silver beach's side 

Still was the prow three fathom wide. 



When lightly bounded to the land 
The messenger of blood and brand 

xin. 
Speed, Malise, speed ! the dun deer's hide 
On fleeter foot was never tied.-^ 
Speed, Malise, speed ! such cause of haste 
Thine active sinews never braced. 
Bend 'gainst the steepy hill thy breast. 
Burst down like torrent from its crest ; 
With short and springing footstep pass 
The trembling bog and false morass ; 
Across the brook like roebuck bound, 
And thread the brake like questing hound; 
The crag is high, the scaur is deep. 
Yet shrink not from the desperate leap: 
Parch'd are thy burning lips and brow. 
Yet by the fountain pause not now ; 
Herald of battle, fate, and feat; 
Stretch onward in thy fleet career ! 
The wounded hind thou track'st not now, 
Pursuest not maid through greenwood boug 
Nor pliest thou now thy flying pace. 
With rivals in the mountain race ; 
But danger, death, and warrior deed. 
Are in thy course — speed, Malise, speed .' 

XIV. 

'Fast as the fatal symbol flies. 
In arms the huts and hamlets rise ; 
From winding glen, from upland brown 
They pour'd each hardy tenant down. 
Nor slack'd the messenger his pace; 
He show'd the sign, he named the place 
And, pressing forward like the wind, 
Left clamor and surprise behind. 
The fisherman forsook the strand. 
The swarthy smith took dirk and brand ; 
With changed cheer, the mower blithe 
Left in the half-cut swathe the scythe ; 
The herds without a keeper stray'd. 
The plough was in mid-furrow staid, 
The falc'ner toss'd his hawk away, 
The hunter left the stag at bay ; 
Prompt at the signal of alarms. 
Each son of Alpine rush'd to arms ; 
So swept the tumult and affray 
Along the margin of Achray, 
Alas 1 thou lovely lake ! that e'er 
Thy banks should echo soands of fear ! 
The rocks, the bosky thickets, sleep 
So stilly on thy bosom deep, 
The lark's blithe carol, from the cloud, 
Seems for the scene too gayly loud. 

XV, 

Speed, Malise, speed ! the lake is past, 
Duncraggan's huts appear at last, 







1 




/<^ 


IH " . 


• c ^ 


_ bs. 




\9^ ' 


<- i 


% 






130 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 






And peep, like moss-grown rocks, half seen. 


Poor Stumah ! whom his last halloo 




Half hidden in tlie copse so green ; 


Could send like lightning o'er the dew, 






There may'st thou rest, tliy labor done, 


Bristles his crest, and points his cars, 
As if some stranger step he hears. 






"'1'^ Their Lord shall speed the signal on. — 






As stoops the hawk upon his prey, 


'Tis not a mourner's muffled tread, 






The henchman shot him down the wav. 


Who comes to sorrow o'er the dead, 






— What woeful accents load the gale ? 


But headlong haste, or deadly fear, 






The funeral yell, the female wail ! 


Urge the precipitate career. 






A gallant hunter's sport is o'er, 


All stand aghast :— unheeding all. 






A valiant warrior fights no more. 


The henchman bursts into the hall ; 






Who, in the battle or the chase, 


Before the dead man's bier he stood ; 






At Roderick's side shall fill his place!— 


Held forth the Cross besmear'd with blood 5 






Within the hall, where torches' ray 


" The muster-place is Lanrick mead ; 






Supplies the excluded beams of day, 


Speed forth the signal ! clansmen, speed ! " 






Lies Duncan on his lowly bier, 








And o'er him streams his widow's tea 


XVIII. 






His stripling son stands mournful by. 


Angus, the heir of Duncan's line. 






Hi's youngest weeps, but knows not why ; 


Sprung forth and seized the fatal sign. 






The village maids and matrons round 


In haste the stripling to his side 






The dismal coronach resound.^9 


His father's dirk and broadsword tied ; 
But when he saw his mother's eye 






XVI. 


Watch him in speechless agony, 






CORONACH. 


Back to her open'd arms he flew, 
Press'd on her lips a fond adieu — 






He is gone on the mountain, 


" Alas ! " she sobb'd, — "and yet, be r;one. 






He is lost to the forest. 


And speed thee forth, like Duncan's son ! " 






Like a summer-dried fountain, 


One look he cast upon the bier, 






When our need was the sorest. 


Dash'd from his eye the gathering tear. 






The font, reappearing. 


Breathed deep to clear his laboring breasi:. 






From the rain-drops shall borrow, 


And toss'd aloft his bonnet crest. 






But to us comes no cheering. 


Then, like the high-bred colt, when, freed, 






To Duncan no morrow ! 


First he essays his fire and speed. 






The hand of the reaper 


He vanish'd, and o'er moor and moss 






Takes the ears that are hoary, 


Sped forward with the Fiery Cross. 






But the voice of the weeper 


Suspended was the widow's tear, 






Wails manhood in glory. 


While yet his footsteps she could hear ; 






Tlie autumn winds rushing 


And when she mark'd the henchman's eye 






Waft the leaves that are searest, 


Wet with unwonted sympathy. 






But our flower was in flushing, 


" Kinsman,'' she said. " his race is run. 






When blighting was nearest. 


That should have sped thine errand on. 






Fleet foot on the correi,* 


The oak has fall'n, — the sapling bough 






Sage counsel in cumber, 
Red hand in the foray, 

How sound is thy slumber ! 


Is all Duncraggan's shelter now. 

Yet trust I well, his duty done. 

The orphan's God will guard my son.- 






Like the dew on the mountain, 

Like the foam on the river. 
Like the babble on the fountain, 


And you. in many a danger true. 

At Duncan's hest your blades that drew. 

To arms, and guard that orphan's head! 






Thou art gone, and forever ! 


Let babes and women wail the dead." 
Then weapon-clang, and martial call. 






XVII. 


Resounded through the funeral hall. 






1 P 


See Stumah,t who, the bier beside, 
His master's corpse with wonder eyed, 


While from the walls the attendant band 
Snatch'd sword and targe, with hurriei5 

hand ; ^ „ 
And short and flitting energy 




* Correi. the hollow side of the hill where 




game usually lies. 


Glanced from the mourner's sunken eye, 






t The name of a dog. The word is Cehic for 


As if the sounds to warrior der.r, 






"faithful." 


Might rouse her Duncan from his bier. 




t 


^- 


A" 






w 


c_l: - 


r 1 •) 


\-y 




•<i — 






■^ ^ 


f. 1 


4 1 S 








THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



131 



But faded soon that borrow'd force, 
Grief claim'd his right, and tears their 
course. 

XIX. 

Benledi saw the Cross of Fire, 
It glanced like lightning up Strath-Ire. 
O'or dale and hill the summons fiew, 
Nor rest nor pause young Angus knew ; 
The tear that gather' d in his eye 
He left the mountain breeze to dry ; 
Until, where Teith's young waters roll, 
Betwixt him and a wooded knoll, 
That graced the sable strath with green, 
The chapel of St. Bride was seen. 
Swoln was the stream, remote the bridge, 
But Angus paused not on the edge ; 
Though the dark waves danced dizzily, 
Though reel'd his sympathetic eye, 
He dash'd amid the torrent's roar: 
His right hand high the crosslet bore, 
His left the pole-axe grasp'd, to guide 
And stay his footing in the tide. 
He stumbled twice — the foam splash'd high. 
With hoarser swell the stream raced by ; 
And had he fall'n, — forever there, 
Farewell Duncraggan's orphan heir ! 
But still, as if in parting life. 
Firmer he grasp'd the Cross of strife, 
Until the opposing bank he gain'd. 
And up the chapel pathway strain'd. 

XX. 

A blithesome rout, that morning tide, 
Had sought the chapel of St. Bride. 
Her troth Tombea's Mary gave 
To Norman, heir of Armandave, 
And, issuing from the Gothic arch. 
The bridal now resumed their march. 
In rude, but glad procession, came 
Bonneted sire and coif-clad dame ; 
And plaided youth, with jest and jeer. 
Which snooded maiden would not hear ; 
And children, that, unwitting why, 
Lent the gay shout their shrilly cry ; 
And minstrels, that in measures vied 
Before tire young and bonny bride. 
Whose downcast eye and cheek disclose 
The tear and blush of morning rose. 
With virgin step, and bashful hand. 
She held the 'kerchief's snowy Ijand; 
The gallant bridegroom by her side. 
Beheld his prize with victor's pride, 
And the glad mother in her ear 
Was closely whispering word of cheer. 

XXI. 

Who meets them at the churchyard gate ? 
The messenger of fear and fate I 
Haste in his hurried accent lies, 



And grief is swimming in his eyes. 

All dripping from the recent flood, 

Panting and travel-soil'd he stood, 

The fatal sign of fire and sword 

Held forth, and spoke the appointed word ; 

" The muster-place is Lanrick mead ; 

Speed forth the signal ! Norman, speed! '' 

And must he change so soon the hand. 

Just link'd to his by holy band. 

For the fell Cross of blood and brand ? 

And must the day, so blithe that rose. 

And promised rapture in the close, 

Before its setting hour, divide 

The bridegroom from the plighted bride ! 

O fatal doom I — it must ! it must ! 

Clan-Alpine's cause, her Chieftain's trust, 

Her summons dread, brook no delay; 

Stretch to the race — away 1 away! 



Yet slow he laid his plaid aside, 

And, lingering, eyed his lovely bride. 

Until he saw the starting tear 

Speak woe he might not stop to chee^ ; 

Then, trusting not a second look, 

In haste he sped him up the brook. 

Nor backward glanced, till On the heath 

Where Lubnaig's lake supplies the Teith. 

— What in the racer's bosom stiri'd? 

The sickening pang of hope deferr'd. 

And memory, with a torturing train 

Of all his morning visions vain. 

Mingled with love's impatience, came 

The manly thirst for martial fame ; 

The stormy joy of mountaineers, 

Ere yet they rush upon the speais ; 

And zeal for Clan and Chieftain burning, 

And hope, from well-fought field returning, 

With war's red honors on his crest. 

To clasp his Mary to his breast. 

Stung by such thoughts, o'er bank and brae, 

Like fire from flint he glanced away, 

While high resolve, and feeling strong. 

Burst into voluntary song. 



The heath this night must be my bed, 
The bracken * curtain for my head, 
My lullaby the warder's tread, 

Far, far from love and thee, Mary, 
To-morrow eve, more stilly laid. 
My couch may be my bloody plaid, 
My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid! 

It will not waken me, Mary I 



• Feru. 





^33 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



I may not, dare not, fancy now 

The grief that clouds thy lovely brow- 

I dare not think upon thy vow. 

And all it promised me, Mary. 
No fond regret must Norman know ; 
When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe, 
His heart must be like bended bow. 

His foot like arrow free, Mary. 

A time will come with feeling fraught. 
For, if I fall in battle fought, 
Thy hapless lover's dying thought 

Shall be a thought on thee, Mary, 
And if return'd from conquer'd foes. 
How blithely will the evening close. 
How sweet the linnet sing repose, 

To my young bride and me, Mary ! 



Not faster o'er thy heathery braes, 
Balquidder, speeds the midnight blaze, ^° 
Rushing, in conflagration strong. 
Thy deep ravines and dells along, 
Wrapping thy cliffs in purple glow, 
And reddening the dark lakes below ; 
Nor faster speeds it. nor so far. 
As o'er thy heaths the voice of war. 
The signal roused to martial coil 
The sullen margin of Loch Voil, 
Waked still Loch Doine, and to the source 
Alarm'd, Balvaig, thy swampy course ; 
Thence southward turn'd its rapid road 
Adown Strath-Gartney's valley broad, 
Till rose in arms each man might claim 
A portion m Clan-Alpine's name, 
From the gray sire, whose trembling hand 
Could hardly buckle on his brand, 
To the raw boy, whose shaft and bow 
Were yet scarce terror to the crow. 
Fach valley, each sequester'd glen, 
Muster'd its little horde of men. 
That met as torrents from the height 
In Highland dales their streams unite. 
Still gathering, as they pour along, 
A voice more loud, a tide more strong, 
Till at the rendezvous they stood 
By hundreds prompt for blows and blood ; 
Each train' d to arms since life began. 
Owning no tie but to his clan. 
No oath, but by his chieftain's hand, 
No law, but Roderick Dhu's command. 



That summer morn had Roderick Dhu 
Survey'd the skirts of Benvenue, 
And sent his scouts o'er hill and heath, 
To view the frontiers of Menteith. 



All backward came with news of truce ; 
Still lay each martial Graeme and Bruce, 
In Rednoch courts no horsemen wait, 
No banner waved on Cardross gate, 
On Duchray's towers no beacon shone. 
Nor scared the herons from Loch Con ; 
All seem'd at peace. — Now, wot ye why 
The Chieftain, with such anxious eye, 
Ere to the muster he repair, 
This western frontier scann'd with care? — 
In Benvenue' s most darksome cleft, 
A fair, though cruel, pledge was left ; 
For Douglas, to his promise true, 
That morning from the isle withdrew, 
And in a deep sequester'd dell 
Had sought a low and lonely cell. 
By many a bard, in Celtic tongue. 
Has Coir-nan-Uriskin been sung ; 3' 
A softer name the Saxons gave. 
And call'd the grot the Goblin-cave. 



It was a wild and strange retreat, 
As e'er was trod by outlaw's feet. 
The dell, upon the mountain's crest, 
Yawn'd like a gash on warrior's breast ; 
Its trench had staid full many a rock, 
Hurl'd by primeval earthquake shock 
From Benvenue's gray summit wild, 
And here, in random ruin piled, 
They frown'd incumbent o'er the spot. 
And form'd the rugged sylvan grot. 
The oak and birch, with mingled shade, 
At noontide there a twilight made, 
Unless when short and sudden shone 
Some straggling beam on cliff or stone, 
With such a glimpse as prophet's eye 
Gains on thy depth, Futurity. 
No murmur waked the solemn still, 
Save tinkling of a fountain rill ; 
But when the wmd chafed with the lake. 
A sullen sound would upward break. 
With dashing hollow voice, that spoke 
The incessant war of wave and rock. 
Suspended cliffs with hideous sway 
Seem'd nodding o'er the cavern gray. 
From such a den the wolf had sprung. 
In such the wild-cat leaves her young : 
Yet Douglas and his daughter fair 
Sought for a space their safety there. 
Gray Superstition's whisper dread 
Debarr'd the spot to vulgar tread : 
For there, she said, did fays resort. 
And satyrs * hold their sylvan court, 

* The Highlanders had a mythological saty, 
or urisk. 








L 






THE LADY' OF THE LAKE. 



^oh 



By moonlight tread their mystic maze, 
And blast the rash beholder's gaze. 
XXVII. 

Now eve, with western shadows long, 

Floated on Katrine bright and strong, 

When Roderick, with a chosen few, 

Repassed the heights of Benvenue. 

Above the Goblin-cave they go. 

Through the wild pass of Beal-nam-bo : 

The prompt retainers speed before. 

To launch the shallop from the shore, 

For cross Loch Katrine lies his way 

To view the passes of Achray, 

And place his clansmen in array. 

Yet lags the chief in musing mind. 

Unwonted sight, his men behind. 

A single page, to bear his sword, 

Alone attended on his lord ; 

The rest their way through thickets break, 

And soon await him by the lake. 

It was a fair and gallant sight. 

To view them from the neighboring height. 

By the low-levell'd sunbeams' light ! 

For strength and stature, from the clan 

Each warrior was a chosen man, 

As even afar might well be seen. 

By their proud step and martial mien. 

Their feathers dance, their tartans float, 

Their targets gleam, as by the boat 

A wild and war-like group they stand, 

That well became such mountain-strand. 

XXVIII. 

The Chief, with step reluctant, still 
Was lingering on the craggy hill. 
Hard by where turn'd apart the road 
To Douglas's obscure abode. 
It was but with that dawning morn, 
That Roderick Dhu had proudly sworn 
To drown his love in war's wild roar, 
Nor think of Ellen Douglas more ; 
But he whc stems a stream with sand, 
And fetters flame with flaxen band. 
Has yet a harder task to prove — 
By firm resolve to conquer love ! 
Eve finds the Chief, like restless ghost, 
Still hovering near his treasure lost ; 
For though his haughty heart deny 
A parting meeting to his eye, 
Still fondly strains his an.Kious ear. 
The accents of her voice to hear. 
And inly did he curse the breeze 
That waked to sound the rustling trees. 
But hark ! what mingles in the strain t 
It is the harp of Allan-Bane, 
That wakes its measure slow and high, 
Attuned to sacred minstrelsy. 




What melting voice attends the btrings i 
'Tis Ellen, or an angel, smgs. 

XXIX. 

HYMN TO THE VIRGIN. 

Ave Maria ' maiden mild ! 

Listen to a maiden's prayer ' 
Thou canst hear though from the wild, 

Thou ca-nst save amid despair 
Safe may we sleep beneath thy care. 

Though banish'd, outcast, and reviled— 
Maiden ! hear a maiden's prayer ; 

Mother, hear a suppliant child ! 

Ave Maria . 
Ave Alaria ' undefiled ! 

The flinty couch we now must share 
Shall seem with down of eider piled. 

If thy protection hover there. 
The murky cavern's heavy air 

Shall breathe of balm if thou hast smiled; 
Then, Maiden ! hear a maiden's prayer ; 

Mother, list a suppliant child ! 

Ave Maria > 
Ave Maria ! stainless styled ! 

Foul demons of the earth and air. 
From this their wanton haunt exiled. 

Shall flee before thy presence fair. 
We bow us to our lot of care, 

Beneath thy guidance reconciled ; 
Hear for a maid a maiden's prayer, 

And for a father hear a child ! 

Ave Maria! 
XXX. 

Died on the harp the closing hymn- 
Unmoved in attitude and limb. 
As list'ning still, Clan-Alpine's Lrd 
Stood leaning on his hea\ y sword, 
Until the page, with humble sign, 
Twice pointed to the sun's decline, 
Then while his plaid he round him cast, 
" It is the last time — 'tis the last,'' 
He mutter'd thrice, — " the last time e'er 
That angel voice shall Roderick hear ! '' 
It was a goading thought — his stride 
Hied hastier down the mountain-side ; 
Sullen he flung him in the boat. 
And instant 'cross the lake it shot. 
They landed in that silvery bay. 
And eastward held their hasty way, 
Till with the latest beams of light. 
The band arrived on Lanrick height. 
Where muster'd, in the vale below, 
Clan-Alpine's men in martial show. 

XXXI. 

A various scene the clansmen made. 
Some sate, some stood, some slow!>- stray' d 






134 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



But most with mantles folded roun^l, 
Were couch'd to rest upon the ground, 
Scarce to be known by curious eye, 
From the deep heather where they lie, 
So well was match'd the tartan screen 
With heath-bell dark and brakens green; 
Unless where, here and there, a blade, 
Or lance's point, a glimmer made, 
Like glow-worm twinkling through 

shade. 
But when, advancing through the gloom, 
They saw the Chieftain's eagle plume, 
Their shout of welcome, shrill and wide. 
Shook the steep mountain's steady side. 
Thrice it arose, and lake and fell 
Three times return'd the martial yell ; 
It died upon Bochastle's plain, 
And Silence claim'd her evening reign. 



Che 



CANTO FOURTH. 

THE PROPHECY. 



•* The rose is fairest when 'tis budding new, 
And hope is brightest when it dawns 

from fears ; 
The rose is sweetest wash'd with morning 

dew, 
And love is loveliest when embalm'd in 

tears. 
O wilding rose, whom fancy thus endears, 
I bid your blossoms in my bonnet wave. 
Emblem of hope and love through future 

years ! " 
Thus spoke young Norman, heir of Ar- 

mandave. 
What time the sun arose on Vennachar's 

broad wave. 



Such fond conceit, half said, half sung. 

Love prompted to the bridegroom's tongue. 

All while he stripp'd the wild-rose spray, 

His axe and bow beside him lay. 

For on a pass 'twixt lake and wood, 

A wakeful sentinel he stood. 

Hark ! on the rock a footstep rung, 

And instant to his arms he sprung. 

" Stand, or thou diest ! — What, Malise ? — 

soon 
Art thou return'd from Braes of Doune. 
By thy keen step and glance I know. 
Thou brmg'st us tidings of the foe.'' — 
(For while the Fiery Cross hied on. 
On distant scout had Malise gone.^ 



" Where sleeps the Chief ? "' the henc 

man said. — 
" Apart, in yonder misty glade; 
To his lone couch I'll be your guide. ''-^ 
Then calFd a slumberer by his side. 
And stirr'd him with his slacken'd bow^— 
'• Up, up, Glentarkin ! rouse thee, ho 1 
We seek the Chieitam ; on the track. 
Keep eagle watch till I come back." 

in. 
Together up the pass they sped ; 
" What of the foemen ? " Norman said.— 
" Varying reports from near and far ; 
This certain — that a band of war 
Has for two days been ready boune, 
At prompt command, to march from 

Doune ; 
King James, the while with princely 

powers, 
Holds revelry in Stirling towers. 
Soon will this dark and gathering cloud 
Speak on our glens hi thunder loud. 
Inured to bide such bitter bout. 
The warrior's plaid may bear it out ; 
But, Norman, how wilt thou provide 
A shelter for thy bonny bride ? '' 
"What I know ye not that Roderick's care 
To the lone isle hath caused repair 
Each maid and matron of the clan, 
And every child and aged man 
Unfit for arms ; and given his charge. 
Nor skiff nor shallop, boat nor barge, 
Upon these lakes shall float at large, 
But all beside the islet moor, 
That such dear pledge may rest secure ? "— 

IV. 

" 'Tis well advised — the Chieftain's plan 

Bespeaks the father of his clan. 

But wherefore sleeps Sir Roderick Dhu 

Apart from all his followers true ? '' — 

" It is because last evening-tide 

Brian an augury hat'a tried, 

Of that dread kind which must not be 

Unless m dread extremity, 

The Taghairm call'd ; by which, afar, 

Our six'es foresaw the events of war.^^ 

Duncraggan's milk-white bull they slew." 

MALISE. 

" Ah ! well the gallant brute 1 knew ! 
The choicest of the prey we had, 
When swept our merry-men GaUangad. 
His hide was snow, his horns were dark, 
His red eye glow'd like fiery spark ; 
So fierce, so tameless, and so fteet, 
Sore did he cumber our retreat. 







THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



135 



And kept our stoutest kernes in awe, 

Even at the pass of Beai 'maha. 

But steep and flmty wta the road, 

And sharp the hurrying pikemen's goad, 

And when we came to Dennan's Row, 

A child mi^ht scatheless stroke his brow." — 



NORMAN. 

" That bull was slain : his reeking hide 
They stretch'd the cataract beside. 
Whose waters their wild tumult toss 
Adown the black and craggy boss 
Of that huge cliff, whose ample verge 
Tradition calls the Hero's Targe.^^ 
Couch'd on a shelve beneath its brink, 
Close where the thundering torrents sink, 
Rocking beneath their headlong sway. 
And drizzled by the ceaseless spray, 
Midst groan of rock, and roar of stream, 
The wizard waits prophetic dream. 
Nor distant rests the Chief ; — but hush ! 
See, gliding slow through mist and bush, 
The hermit gains yon lock, and stands 
To gaze upon our slumbering bands. 
Seems he not, Malise, like a ghost, 
That hovers o'er a slaughter'd host 1 
Or raven on the blasted oak, 
That, watching while the deer is broke. 
His morsel claims with sullen croak? " 

MALISE. 

— " Peace 1 peace ! to other than to me, 

Thy words were evil augury ; 

But still I hold Sir Roderick's blade 

Clan-Alpine's omen and her aid, 

Not aught that, glean'd from heaven or hell. 

Yon fiend-begotten monk can tell. 

The Chieftain joins him, see — and now. 

Together they descend the brow." 



.And as they came with Alpnie's Lord 
The Hermit Monk held solemn word : — 
" Roderick ! it is a fearful strife. 
For man endow'd with mortal life. 
Whose shroud of sentient clay can still 
Feel feverish pang and faulting chill, 
Whose eye can stare in stony trance, 
Wliose hair can rouse like warrior's lance, — 
'Tis hard for such to view unfurl'd 
The curtain of the future world. 
Yet, witness every quaking limb, 
My sunken pulse my eyeballs dim, 
My soul wit'ii harrowing anguish torn, — 
This for my Chieftain have I borne 1 — 



The shapes that sought my tearful couch, 

A human tongue may ne'er avouch ; 

No mortal man, — save he, who, bred 

Between the living and the dead, 

Is gifted beyond nature's law, — 

Had e'er survived to say he saw. 

At length the fatal answer came. 

In characters of living flame ! 

Not spoke in word, nor blazed in scroll. 

But borne and branded on my soul ; — 

Which spills the foremost foeman's 

LIFE, 

That party conquers in the 

STRIFE ! " 3+ 



" Thanks, Brian, for thy zeal and care I 
Good is thine augury, and fair. 
Clan-Alpine ne'er in battle stood. 
But first our broadswords tasted blood. 
A surer victim still I know, 
Self-offer'd to the auspicious blow ; 
A spy has sought my land this morn, — 
No eye shall witness his return ! 
My followers guard each pass's mouth, 
To east, to westward, and to south ; 
Red Murdock, bribed to be his guide, 
Has charge to lead his steps aside. 
Till, in deep path or dingle brown. 
He light on those shall bring him down. 
— But see, who comes his news to show ! 
Malise 1 what tidings of the foe.? " — 



" At Doune, o'er many a spear and glaive 

Two Barons proud their banners wave. 

I saw the Moray's silver star. 

And mark'd the sable pale of Mar." — 

" By Alpine's soul, high tidings those! 

I love to hear of worthy foes. 

When move they on?" — "To-morrow's 

noon 
Will see them here for battle boune." — 
" Then shall it see a meeting stern ! — 
But, for the place — say, couldst thou learn 
Nought of the friendly clans of Earn ? 
Strengthen'd by them, we well might bide 
The battle on Benledi's side. 
Thou couldst not ? — Well ! Clan-Alpine's 

men 
Shall man the Trosach's shaggy glen ; 
Within Loch Katrine's gorge we'll fight, 
All in our maids' and matrons' sight. 
Each for his hearth and household fire, 
Father for child, and son for sire, — 
Lover for maid jjeloved I — But why- 
Is it the breeze affects mine eye? 






1 




/<i - 


(* 1 •) 




S 


— . 


^^_^ ^ 


■^ v\ 


Ih^. ' 


<■ 1-^ 


^^ 




1 r 


■^ 


-. 






136 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 






Or dost thou come, ill-omen'd tear I 


Of Malcolm Graeme, in fetters bound, 




A messenger of doubt or fear ? 


Which I, thou saidst, about him wcund. 






J [j No ! sooner may tlie Saxon hmce 


Think'st thou he trow'd thine omen aught ? 






Unfix Benledi from his stance, 


Oil no ! 'twas apprehensive thougl.t 
For the kind youth, — for Roderick too— 


' 




Than doubt or terror can pierce through 






The unyielding heart of Roderick Dhu ! 


(Let me be just) that friend so true ; 






'Tis stubborn as his trusty targe. — 


In danger both, and in our cause ! 






Each to liis post ! — all know their charge." 


Minstrel, the Douglas dare not pause. 






The pibroch sounds, the bands advance. 


\\"by else that solemn warning given. 






The broadswords gleam, the banners 


' If not on earth, we meet in heaven ! ' a 






dance, 


Why else, to Cambus kenneth's fane, | 






Obedient to the Chieftain's glance. 


If eve return him not again. 






—I turn me from the martial roar, 


Am I to hie, and make me known ? .j 






And seek Coir-Uriskin once more. 


Alas ! he goes to Scotland's throne, f 
Buys his friend's safety with his own ; — 






i-\. 


He goes to do — what I had done. 






Where is the Douglas ? — he is gone ; 


Had Douglas' daughter been his son ! "— ' 






And Ellen sits on the gray stone 








Fast by the cave, and makes her moan 


XI. 






While vainly Allan's words of cheer 


'• Nay, lovely Ellen ! — dearest, nay ! 






Are pour'd on her unheeding ear. — 


If aught should his return delay, 






"He will return — Dear lady, trust ! — 


He only named yon holy fane 






With joy return ; — he will^he must. 


As fitting place to meet again. 






Well was it time to seek, afar, 


Be sure he's safe ; and for the Graeme,-^ 






Some refuge from impending war, 


Heaven's blessing on his gallant name i~ 






When e'en Clan-Alpine's rugged swarm 


My vision'd sight may yet prove true. 






Are cow'd by the approaching storm. 


Nor bode of ill to him or you. 






I saw their boats with many a light, 


When did my gifted dream beguile t 






Floating the live-long yesternight, 


Think of the stranger at the isle. 






Shifting like flashes darted forth 


And think upon the harpings slow. 






By the red streamers of the north ; 


That presaged this approaching woe ? 






I mark'd at morn how close they ride, 


Sooth was my prophecy of fear ; 






Thick moor'd by the lone islet's side, 


Believe it when it augurs cheer. 






Like wild-ducks couching in the fen. 


Would we had left this dismal spot ! 






When stoops the hawk upon the glen. 


Ill luck still haunts a fairy grot. 






Since this rude race dare not abide 


Of such a wondrous tale I know — 






The peril on the mainland side, 


Dear lady, change that look cf woe. 






Shall not thy noble father's care 


My harp was wont thy grief to cheer."— 






Some safe retreat for thee prepare ? "— 


ELLEN. 






X. 


" Well, be it as thou wilt ; I hear, 






ELLEN. 


But cannot stop the bursting tear." 






" No, Allan, no ! Pretext so kind 
My wakeful terrors could not blind. 


The Minstrel tried his simple art, 
But distant far was Ellen's heart. 






When in such tender tone, yet grave. 


XII. 






Douglas a parting blessing gave, 








The tear that glisten'd in his eye 


BALLAD. 






Drown' d not his purpose fix'd on high. 


Alice Brand. 






My soul, though feminine and weak, 
Can image his ; e'en as the lake, 


Merry it is in the good greenwood. 

Where the mavis * and merle \ are 






Itself disturb'd by slightest stroke, 


singing. 






^ Reflects the invulnerable rock. 


When the deer sweeps by, and the hounds f. , 






He hears report of battle rife. 


are in ciy. 






He deems himself the cause of strife. 


And the himter's horn is ringing. 




' 


I saw him redden, when the theme 
Turn'd, Allan, on thine idle dream. 








* Mavis, a thrush. t Merle, a blackbird. 




V^ . M . 


k* •) 


_- \y 




^ ,^-1 ., 


(. ■J 


-jjy 


1 




THE LADY OF THE LAKE 



137 



" O Alice Brand, m)- native land 

Is lost for love of you ; 
And we must hold by wood and wold, 

As outlaws wont to do. 

" O Alice, 'twas all for thy locks so bright, 
And 'twas all for thine eyes so blue, 

That on the night of our luckless flight, 
Thy brother bold 1 slew, 

" Now must I teach to hew the beech 

The hand that held the glaive, 
For leaves to spread our lowly bed. 

And stakes to fence our cave. 

" And for vest of pall, thy fingers small, 

That wont on harp to stray, 
A cloak must sheer from the slaughter'd 
deer. 

To keep the cold away." — 

" O Richard ! if my brother died, 

'Twas but a fatal chance. 
For darkling was the battle tried, 

And fortune sped the lance. 

" If pall and vair no more I wear, 

Nor thou the crimson sheen, 
As warm, we'll say, is the russet gray, 

As gay the forest green. 

" And, Richard, if our lot be hard, 

And lost thy native land, 
Still Alice has her own Richard, 

And he his Alice Brand." 

XIII. 
BALLAD CONTINUED. 

•Tis merry, 'tis merry, in good greenwood. 
So blithe Lady Alice is singing ; 

On the beech's pride, and oak's brown side, 
Lord Richard's axe is ringing. 

Up spoke the moody Elfin King, 

Who wonn'd within the hill, — 
Like wind in the porch of a ruin'd church. 

His voice was ghostly shrill. 

'' Why sounds yon stroke on beech and oak, 

Our moonlit circle's screen ? 
Or who comes here to chase the deer. 

Beloved of our Elfin Queen? 3S 
Or who may dare on wold to wear 

The fairies' fatal green ? ^^ 

" Up, Urgan, up ! to yon mortal hie. 
For thou wert christen'd man ; ^'^ 

For cross or sign thou wilt not fly, 
For mutter'd word or ban. 



" Lay on him the curse of the wither'd 
heart. 
The curse of the sleepless eye ; 
Till he wish and pray that his life would 
part. 
Nor yet find leave to die." 



BALLAD CONTINUED, 

'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in good greenwood. 
Though the birds have stilt'd their sing 

™g ; 

The evening blaze doth Alice raise, 

And Richard is fagots bringing. 
Up Urgan starts, that hideous dwarf 

Before Lord Richard stands, 
And, as he cross'd and biess'd himself, 
" I fear not sign,'' quoth the grizly elf, 

" That is made with bloody hands." 
But out then spoke she, Alice Brand, 

That woman void of fear, — 
" And if there's blood upon his hand, 

'Tis but the blood of deer." — 
" Now loud thou liest, thou bold of mood! 

It cleaves unto his hand, 
The stain of thine own kindly blood. 

The blood of Ethert Brand." 
Then forward stepp'd she, Alice Brand, 

And made the holy sign, — 
" And if there's blood on Richard's hand, 

A spotless hand is mine. 
" And I conjure thee. Demon elf. 

By Him whom Demons fear, 
To show us whence thoii art thyself. 

And what thine errand here? " — 



BALLAD CONTINUED. 

" 'Tis merry, 'tis merry in Fairy-land, 

When fairy birds are singing, 
When the court doth ride by their moi> 
arch's side. 

With bit and bridle ringing : 

" And gayly shines the Fairy-land — 

But all is glistening show, 
Like the idle gleam that December's beam 

Can dart on ice and snow. 

" And fading, like that varied gleam. 

Is our inconstant shape, 
Who now like knight and lady seem. 

And now like dwarf and ape. 

" It was between the night and day, 
When the Fairy King has power 







i3<5 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



That I sunk down in a sinful fray, 
And 'twixt life and death, was snatch'd 
away 

To the joyless Elfin bower. 
" But wist I of a woman bold, 

Who thrice my brow durst sign, 
I might regain my mortal mould, 

As fair a form as thine." 

She cross'd him once — she cross'd him 
twice — 

That lady was so brave ; 
The fouler grew his goblin hue, 

The darker grew the cave. 

She cross'd him' thrice, that lady bold ; 

He rose beneath her hand 
The fairest knight on Scottish mould, 

Her brother, Ethert Brand ! 
Merry it is in good greenwood, 

When the mavis and merle are smging. 
But merrier were they in Dunfermline gray, 

When all the bells were ringing;. 



Just as the minstrel sounds were staid, 

,\ stranger climb'd the steepy glade ; 

His martial step, his stately mien, 

His hunting suit of Lincoln green. 

His eagle glance, remembrance claims — 

'Tis Snowdoun's Knight, 'tis James Fitz- 

James. 
Ellen beheld as m a dream. 
Then, starting, scarce suppress'd a scream : 
" O stranger ! in such hour of fear. 
What evil hap has brought thee here.'"' — 
" An evil hap how can it be, 
That bids me look again on thee ? 
By promise bound, my former guide 
Met me betimes this morning tide, 
And marshall'd, over bank and bourne. 
The happy path of my return." — 
" The happy path ', — -what ! said he nought 
Of war, of battle to be fought. 
Of guarded pass ? " — " No, by my faith ! 
Nor saw I aught could augur scathe." — 
" haste thee, Allan, to the kern, 
— Yonder his tartans I discern ; 
Learn thou his purpose, and conjure 
That he will guide the stranger sure ! — 
What prompted tliec, unhappy man .'' 
The meanest serf in Roderick's clan 
Had not been bribed by love or fear. 
Unknown to him to guide thee here." — 

XVII. 

" Sweet Ellen, dear my life must be, 
Since it is worthy care from thee ; 



Yet life I hold but idle breath. 

When love or honor's weigh'd with death. 

Then let me profit by my chance, 

And speak my purpose bold at once. 

I come to bear thee from a wild. 

Where ne'er before such blossom smiled ; 

By this soft hand to lead thee far 

From frantic scenes of feud and war. 

Near Bochastle my horses wait ; 

They bear us soon to Stirling gate, 

I'll place thee in a lovely bower, 

I'll guard thee like a tender flower '' 

" O ! hush. Sir Knight ! 'twere female 

art, 
To say I do not read thy heart ; 
Too much, before, my selfish ear 
Was idly soothed my praise to hear. 
That fatal bait hath lured tliee back. 
In deathful hour, o'er dangerous track; 
And how, O how, can I atone 
The wreck my vanity brought on ! 
One way remains — I'll tell him all- 
Yes ! struggling bosom, forth it shall ! 
Thou, whose light folly bears the blame, 
Buy thine own pardon with thy shame ! 
But first — my father is a man 
Outlaw'd and exiled, under ban ; 
The price of blood is on his head, 
With me 'twere infamy towed. — 
Still wouldst thou speak? — .then hear the 

truth ! 
Fitz-James, there is a noble youth, — 
If yet he is ! — exposed for me 
And mine to dread extremity— 
Thou Iiast the secret of my her.rt ; 
Forgive, be generous, and depart I 

XV in. 
Fitz-James knew every wily train 
k lady's fickle heart to gain ; 
But here he knew and felt them vain. 
There shot no glance from Ellen's eye. 
To give her steadfast speech the lie, 
In maiden confidence she stood, 
Though mantled in her cheek the blood. 
And told her love with such a sigh 
Of deep and hopeless agony, 
As death had seal'd her Malcolm's dooni 
And she sat sorrowing on his tonib. 
Hope vanish'd from Fitz-James's eye, 
But not with hope fled sympathy. 
He proffer'd to attend her side, 
As brother would a sister guide. — 
" O ! little know'st thou Roderick's heart ! 
Safer for both we go apart. 
O haste thee, and from Allan learn, 
If thou niay'st trust yon wily kern." 






'Ellen, thy hand — the ring is thine ; 
Each guard and usher knows the sign." — Page 139. 



& 



C 5 

a a 




THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



139 



With hand upon his forehead laid, 

The conflict of his mind to shade, 

A parting step or two he made ; 

Then, as some thought had cross'd his 

brain. 
He paused, and turn'd, and came again. 

XIX. 

" Hear, lady, yet a parting word ! — 

It chanced in fight that my poor sword 

Preserved the life of Scotland's lord. 

This ring the grateful monarch gave, 

And bade when I had boon to crave. 

To bring it back, and boldly claim 

The recompense that I would name. 

Ellen, I am no courtly lord. 

But one who lives by lance and sword. 

Whose castle is his helm and shield, 

His lordship the embattled field. 

What from a prince can I demand, 

Who neither reck of state nor land .? 

Ellen, thy hand — the ring is thine ; 

Each guard and usher knows the sign 

Seek thou the king without delay ; 

This signet shall secure thy way ; 

And claim thy suit, whate'er it be, 

As ransom of his pledge to me." 

He placed the golden circlet on. 

Paused — kiss'd her hand — and then was 

gone. 
The aged Minstrel stood aghast. 
So hastily Fitz-James shot past. 
He join'd his guide, and wending down 
The ridges of the mountain brown, 
Across the stream they took their way. 
That joins Loch Katrine to Achray. 

XX. 

All in the Trosach's glen was still. 
Noontide was sleeping on the hill ; 
Sudden his guide whoop'd loud and high — 

; " Murdoch ! was that a signal cry ? " — 
He stammer'd forth, — " I shout to scare 

I Yon raven from his dainty fare." 
He look'd — he knew the raven's prey. 
His own brave steed : — " Ah ! gallant gray ! 
For thee — for me, perchance — 'twere well 
We ne'er had seen the Trosach's dell. — 
Murdoch, move first — but silently ; 
Whistle or whoop, and thou shalt die ! " 
Jealous and sullen on they fared. 
Each silent, each upon his guard. 

XXI. 

Now wound the path its dizzy ledge 
Around a precipice's edge. 
When lo ! a wasted female form. 
Blighted by wrath of sun and storm, 



In tatter'd weeds and wild array, 
Stood on a cliff beside the way. 
And glancing round her restless eye. 
Upon the wood, the rock, the sky, 
Seem'd nought to mark, yet all to spy. 
Her brow was wreath'd with gaudy broom ; 
With gesture wild she waved a plume 
Of feathers, which the eagles fling 
To crag and cliff from dusky wing ; 
Such spoils her desperate step had sought. 
Where scarce was footing for the goat. 
The tartan plaid she first descried. 
And shriek'd till all the rocks replied ; 
As loud she laugh'd when near they drew, 
For then the Lowland garb she knew ; 
And then her hands she wildly wrung. 
And then she wept, and then she sung — 
She sung ! — the voice, in better time. 
Perchance to harp or lute might chime; 
And now, tho' strain'd and roughen'd, still 
Rung wildly sweet to dale and hill 



SONG. 

" They bid me sleep, they bid me pray. 

They say my brain is warp'd and wrung- — 
I cannot sleep on Highland brae, 

I cannot pray in Highland tongue. 
But were I now where Allan * glides, 
Or heard my native Devan's tides, 
So sweetly would I rest, and pray 
That Heaven would close my wintry day ! 

" 'Twas thus my hair they bade me braid, 
They made me to the church repair ; 

It was my bridal morn they said, 

And my true love would meet me there. 

But woe betide the cruel guile. 

That drown'd in blood the morning smile ! 

And woe betide the fairy dream ! 

I only waked to sob and scream." 

XXIII. 

" Who is this maid ? what means her lay ? 
She hovers o'er the hollow way. 
And flutters wide her mantle gray. 
As the lone heron spreads his wing, 
By twilight, o'er a haunted spring." — 
" 'Tis Blanche of Devan," Murdoch said, 
" A crazed and captive Lowland maid, 
Ta'en on the morn she was a bride. 
When Roderick foray'd Devan-side. 
The gay bridegroom resistance made. 
And felt our Chief's unconquer'd blade. 



* A llan and Devan, two rivers running 
tlirough Stirling Plain. 




A- 




140 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



I marvel she is now at large, 

But oft she 'scapes from Maudlin's charge. — 

Hence, brain-sick fool!" — He raised his 

bow : — 
" Now, if thou strikest her but one blow, 
I'll pitch thee from the cliff as far 
As ever peasant pitch'd a bar ! " — 
" Thanks, champion, thanks ! " the Maniac 

cried, 
And press'd her to Fitz-James's side. 
"See the gray pennons I prepare, 
To seek my true-love through the air ; 
I will not lend that savage groom. 
To break his fall, one downy plume ! 
No ! — deep amid disjointed stones. 
The wolves shall batten on his bones, 
And then shall his detested plaid. 
By bush and briar in mid air staid, 
Wave forth a banner fair and free, 
Meet signal for their revelry." — 

XXIV, 

" Hush thee, poor maiden, and be still I " — 
" O ! thou look'st kindly, and I will. — 
Mine eye has dried and wasted been, 
But still it loves the Lincoln green ; 
And, though mine ear is all unstrung, 
Still, still it loves the Lowland tongue. 

" For O my sweet William was forester 
true, 
He stole poor Blanche's heart away ! 

His coat it was all of the greenwood hue, 
And so blithely he trill'd the Lowland 
lay! 
" It was not that I meant to tell. 
But thou art wise and guessest well." 
Then, in a low and broken tone, 
And hurried note, the song went on. 
Still on the Clansman, fearfully. 
She fix'd her apprehensive eye ; 
Then turn'd it on the Knight, and then 
Her look glanced wildly o'er the glen. 

XXV. 

" The toils are pitch'd, and the stakes are 
set, 
Ever sing merrily, merrily ; 
The bows they bend, and the knives they 
whet, 
Hunters live so cheerily. 

" It was a stag, a stag of ten,* 
Bearing its branches sturdily; 

He came stately down the glen, 
Ever smg hardily, hardily. 

* Of ten branches to his antlers ; a royal or 
Qo'ole deer. 



"It was there he met with a wounded 
doe, 

She was bleeding deathfully ; 
She warn'd him of the toils below, 

O, so faithfully, faitlifully ! 

" He had an eye, and he could heed, 

Ever sing warily, warily ; 
He had a foot, and he could speed — 

Hunters watch so narrowlv." 



Fitz-James's mind was passion-toss'd. 
When Ellen's hints and fears were lost ; 
But Murdoch's shout suspicion wrought, 
And Blanche's song conviction brought.— 
Not like a stag that spies the snare. 
But lion of the hunt aware. 
He waved at once his blade on high, 
" Disclose thy treachery, or die ! " 
Forth at full speed the Clansman flew. 
But in his race his bow he drew. 
The shaft just grazed Fitz-James's crest, 
And thrill'd in Blanche's faded breast, — 
Murdoch of Alpine ! prove thy speed. 
For ne'er had Alpine's son such need ! 
With heart of fire, and foot of wind. 
The fierce avenger is behind ! 
Fate judges of the rapid strife — 
The forfeit death — the prize is life ! 
Thy kindred ambush lies before. 
Close couch'd upon the heathery moor ; 
Them couldst thou reach — it may not be — 
Thine ambush'd kin thou ne'er shalt see, 
The fiery Saxon gains on thee ! 
— Resistless speeds the deadly thrust, 
As lightning strikes the pine to dust ; 
With foot and hand Fitz-James musi 

strain. 
Ere he can win his blade again. 
Bent o'er the fallen, with falcon eye, 
He grimly smiled to see him die ; 
Then slower wended back his way, 
Where the poor maiden bleeding lay. 

XXVII. 

She sate beneath the birchen tree. 

Her elbow resting on her knee ; 

She had withdrawn the fatal shaft, 

And gazed on it, and feebly laugh'd ; 

Her wreath of broom and feathers gray, 

Daggled with blood, beside her lay. 

The Knight to stanch the life -stream 

tried, — 
" Stranger, it is in vain ! " she cried. 
" This hour of death has given me more 
Of reason's power than years before : 






l\ 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



141 



For, as these ebbing veins decay, 
My frenzied visions fade away. 
A lielpless injured wretcli I die, 
And sometliing tells me in thine eye. 
That thou wert mine avenger born. — 
Seest thou this tress ? — O ! still I've worn 
This little tress of yellow hair, 
Through danger, frenzy, and despair ! 
It once was bright and clear as thine, 
But blood and tears have dimm'd its shine. 
I will not tell thee when 'twas shred, 
Xor from what guiltless victim's head — 
My brain would turn! — but it shall wave 
Like plumage on thy helmet brave, 
TjII sun and wind shall bleach the stain. 
And thou wilt bring it me again. — 
I waver still. — O God! more bright 
Let reason beam her parting light ! — 
O ! by thy knighthood's honor'd sign. 
And for thy life preserved by mine. 
When thou shalt see a darksome man, 
Who boasts him Chief of Alpine's Clan, 
With tartans broad and shadowy plume, 
And hand of blood, and brow of gloom, 
Be thy heart bold, thy weapon strong, 
And wreak poor Blanche of Devan's 

wrong ! — 
They watch for thee by pass and tell . . . 
Avoid the path . . . O God ! . . . . fare- 
well." 

XXVIII. 

A kindly heart had brave Fitz-James ; 

Fast pour'd his eyes at pity's claims. 

And now with mingled grief and ire. 

He saw the murder'd maid expire. 

" God, in my need, be my relief, 

As I wreak this on yonder Chief ! " 

A lock from Blanche's tresses fair 

He blended with her bridegroom's hair ; 

The mingled braid in blood he dyed, 

.\nd placed it on his bonnet-side • 

" By Him whose word is truth ! ! ;,v,;.iv, 

No other favor will I wear, 

Till this sad token I imbrue 

In the best blood of Roderick Dhu ! 

— But hark ! what means yon faint halloo .? 

The chase is up. — but they shall know, 

The stag at bay 's a dangerous foe." 

Barr'd from the known but guarded 

way, 
Through copse and cliffs Fitz-James must 

stray. 
And oft must change his desperate track. 
By stream and precipice turn'd back. 
Heartless, fatigued, and faint, at length, 
From lack of food and loss of strength, 



He couch'd him in a thicket hoar, 
And thought his toils and perils o'er : — 
" Of all my rash adventures past. 
This frantic feat must prove the last ! 
Who e'er so mad but might liave guess'd, 
That all this Highland hornet's nest 
Would muster up in swarms so soon 
As e'er they heard of bands at Doune? — 
Like bloodhounds now they search mt 

out, — 
Hark, to the whistle and the shout ! — 
If farther through the wilds I go, 
I only fall upon the foe : 
I'll couch me here till evening gray. 
Then darkling try my dangerous way.'' 



The shades of eve come slowly down, 
The woods are wrapt in deeper brown, 
The owl awakens from her dell. 
The fox is heard upon the fell ; 
Enough remains of glimmering light 
To guide the wanderer's steps aright. 
Vet not enough from far to show 
His figure to the watchful foe. 
With cautious step, and ear awake. 
He climbs the crag and threads the brake 
.And not the summer solstice, there, 
Temper'd the midnight mountain air, 
But every breeze, that swept the wold, 
Benumb'd his drenched limbs with cold. 
In dread, in danger, and alone, 
Famish'd and chill'd, througli ways un- 
known. 
Tangled and steep, he journey'd on ; 
Till, as a rock's huge point he turn'd, 
\ watch-fire close before him burn'd. 

x.xx. 

Beside its embers red and clear, 
Bask'd, in his plaid, a mountaineer ; 
\nd up he sprung with sword in hand, — 
■• Thy name and purpose I Saxon, 

stand ! " — 
■' A stranger." — " What dost thou re- 
quire? " 
■' Rest and a guide, and food and fire. 
My life's beset, my path is lost, 
The gale has chill'd my limbs with frost." 
" Art thou a friend to Roderick ? "— 

"No."— 
" Thou darest not call thyself a foe ?" — 
•• I dare ! to him and all the band 
He brings to aid his murderous hand." — 
" Bold vv'ords ! — but, though the beast of 

game 
The privilege of chase may claim. 







k 



142 



SCOTT'S FOE TIC AL WORKS. 



Though space and law the sta^ we lend, 
Ere hound we slip, or bow we bend, 
Who ever reck'd, where, how, or when. 
The prowling fox was trapp'd or slain ? ^s 
Thus treacherous scouts, — yet sure they lie, 
Who say thoii earnest a secret spy ! " 
" Thev do, by heaven ! — Come Roderick 

Dhu, 
And of his clan the boldest two. 
And let me but till morning rest, 
I write the falsehood on their crest. "- 
" If by the blaze I mark aright, 
Thou bear'st the belt and spur of 

Knight." — 
" Then by these tokens mayest thou know 
Each proud oppressor's mortal foe." — 
'■ Enough, enough ; sit down and share 
A soldier's couch, a soldier's fare."' 

XXXI. 

He gave him of his Highland cheer. 

The harden'd flesh of mountain deer ; ^9 

Dry fuel on the fire he laid. 

And bade the Saxon share his plaid. 

He tended him like welcome guest, 

Then thus his farther speeth address'd. 

" Stranger, I am to Roderick Dhu 

A clansman born, a kinsman true ; 

Each word against his honor spoke, 

Demands of me avenging stroke ; 

Yet more, — upon thy fate, 'tis said. 

A mighty augury is laid. 

It rests with me to wind my horn, — 

Thou art with numbers overborne ; 

It rests with me, here, brand to brand, 

Worn as thou art, to bid thee stand : 

But, not for clan, nor kindred's cause. 

Will I depart from honor's laws ; 

To assail a wearied man were shame, 

And stranger is a holy name ; 

Guidance and rest, and food and fire, 

In vain he never must require. 

Then rest thee here till dawn of day ; 

Myself will guide thee on the way, 

O'er stock and stone, through watch and 

ward. 
Till past Clan-Alpine's outmost guard. 
As far as Coilantogle's ford ; 
From thence thy warrant is thy sword." — 
" I take thy courtesy, by heaven. 
As freely as 'tis nobly given ! " 
" Well, rest thee ; for the bittern's cry 
Sings us the lake's wild lullaby." 
With that he shook the gather'd heath. 
And spread his plaid upon the wreath ; 
And the brave foemen, side by side. 
Lay peaceful down like brothers tried. 



And slept until the dawning beam 
Purpled the mountain and the stream. 



CANTO FIFTH. 



THE COMBAT. 



Fair as the earliest beam of eastern light, 
When first, by the bewilder'd pilgrim 
spied, 
It smiles upon the dreary brow of night, 
And silvers o'er the torrent's foaming 
tide, 
And lights the fearful path on mountain 
side, 
Fair as that beam, although the fairest 
far, 
Giving to horror grace, to danger pride, 
Shine martial Faith, and Courtesy's 
bright star, 
Through all the wreckful storms that 
cloud the brow of War. 

II. 
That early beam, so fair and sheen, 
Was twinkling through the hazel screen, 
When, rousing at its glimmer red. 
The warriors left their lowly bed, 
Look'd out upon the dappled sky, 
Mutter'd their soldier matins by, 
And then awaked their fire, to steal. 
As short and rude, their soldier meal. 
That o'er, the Gael * around him threw 
His graceful plaid of varied hue, 
And, true to promise, led the way, 
By thicket green and mountain gray. 
A wildering path ! — they winded now 
Along the precipice's brow, 
Commanding the rich scenes beneath, 
The windings of the Forth and Teith, 
And all the vales beneath that lie, 
Till Stirling's turrets melt in sky ; 
Then, sunk in copse, their farthest glance 
Gain'd not the length of horseman's lance. 
'Twas oft so steep, the foot was fain 
Assistance from the hand to gain ; 
So tangled oft, that, bursting through, 
Each hawthorn shed her showers of dew, — 
That diamond dew, so pure and clear, 
It rivals all but Beauty's tear 1 

III. 
At length they came where, stern and steep. 
The hill sinks down upon the deep. 



* Gael, che ancient or Celtic name of a High 
lander. 






THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



143 



Here Vennachar in silver flows, 
Tliere, ridge on ridge, Benledi rose ; 
Ever tlie liollow path twined on, 
Beneath steep bank and threatening stone ; 
An hundred men might liold the post 
With liardihood against a host. 
The rugged mountain's scanty cloalc 
Was dwarfish shrubs cf bircli and oalc. 
With shingles bare, and cliffs between, 
And patches bright of bracken green. 
And heather black, that waved so high, 
It held the copse in rivalry. 
But where the lake slept deep and still, 
Dank osiers fringed the swamp and hiil ; 
And oft both path and hill were torn. 
Where wintry torrents down had borne, 
And heap'd upon the cumber'd land 
Its wreck of gravel, rocks, and sand. 
§0 toilsome was the road to trace, 
The guide, abating of his pace, 
Led slowly through the pass's jaws. 
And ask'd Fitz-James, by what strange cause 
He sought these wilds ? traversed by few, 
Without a pass from Roderick Dhu. 

IV. 

" Brave Gael, my pass in danger tried. 
Hangs in my belt and by my side ; 
Yet, sootli to tell," the Saxon said, 
" I dreamt not now to claim its aid. 
When here, but three days since, I came, 
Bewilder'd in pursuit of game, 
All seem'd as peaceful and as still 
As the mist slumbering on yon hill ; 
Thy dangerous Chief was then afar, 
Nor soon expected back from war. 
Thus said, at least, my mountain-guide, 
Though deep, perchance, the villain liecl." — 
" Yet vvhy a second venture try ? " 
" A warrior thou, and ask me why ! — 
Moves our free course by such fix'd cause. 
As gives the poor mechanic laws : 
Enough, I sought to drive away 
The lazy hours of peaceful day ; 
Slight cause will then suffice to guide 
A Knight's free footsteps far and wide — 
A falcon flown, a greyhound stray'd. 
The merry glance of mountain maid t 
Or, if a path be dangerous known, 
The danger's self is lure alone." 

V. 

*' Thy secret keep, I urge thee not : — 
Yet, ere again ye sought this spot, 
Say, heard ye nought of Lowland war, 
Against Clan-Alpine, raised by Mar ? " 
— " No, by my word ; — of bands prepared 
To guard King James's sports I heard ; 



Nor doubt I aught, but, when they hear 
This muster of the mountaineer. 
Their pennons will abroad be flung, 
Which else in Doune had peaceful hung." — 
" Free be they flung ! — for we were loth 
Their silken folds should feast the moth. 
Free be they flung ! — as free shall wave 
Clan-Alpine's pine in banner brave. 
But, Stranger, peaceful since you came, 
Bewilder'd in the mountain game, 
Whence the bold boast by which you show 
Vich-Alpine's vow'd and mortal foe ? "— 
" Warrior, but yester-morn, I knew 
Nought of thy Chieftain, Roderick Dhu, 
Save as an outlaw'd desperate man, 
The chief of a rebellious clan, 
Who, in the Regent's court and sight, 
With ruffian dagger stabb'd a knight : 
Yet this alone might from his part 
Sever each true and loyal heart." 

VI. 

Wrathful at such arraignment foul, 
Dark lower'd the clansman's sable scowl, 
A space he paused, then sternly said, 
" And heard'st thou why he drew his blade? 
Heard'st thou that shameful word and blow 
Brought Roderick's vengeance on his foe } 
What reck'd the Chieftain if he stood 
On Highland heath, or Holy-Rood ? 
He rights such wrong where it is given. 
If it were in the court of heaven." — 
" Still was it outrage ; — yet, 'tis true, 
Not then claim'd sovereignty his due; 
While Albany, with feeble hand, 
Held borrow'd truncheon of command,-*" 
The young King, mew'd in Stirling tower, 
Was stranger to respect and power. 
But then, thy Chieftain's robber life! — • 
Winning mean prey by causeless strife. 
Wrenching from ruin'd Lowland swain 
His herds and harvest rear'd in vain. — 
Methinks a soul, like thine, should scorn 
The spoils from such foul foray borne." 

VII. 

The Gael beheld him grim the wTiile, 
And answer' d with disdainful smile,— 
" Saxon, from yonder mountain high, 
I mark'd thee send delighted eye, 
Far to the south and east, where lay, 
Extended in succession gay. 
Deep waving fields and pastures green, 
With gentle slopes and groves between: — 
These fertile plains, that soften'd vale, 
Were once the birthright of the Gael ; 
The stranger came with iron hand, 
And from our fathers reft the land. 






144 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Where dwell we now ? See, rudely swell 

Crag over crag, and fell o'er fell. 

Ask we this savage hill we tread, 

For fatten'd steer or household bread : 

Ask we for flocks these shingles dry. 

And well the mountain might reply, — 

' To you, as to your sirCs of yore, 

Belong the target and claymore I 

I give you shelter in my breast, 

Your own good blades must win the rest.' 

Pent in this fortress of the North, 

Think'st thou we will not saliy forth, 

To spoil the spoiler as we niay, 

And from the robber rend the prey ? 

Ay, by my soul ! — While on yon plain 

The Saxon rears one shock of grain ; 

While, of ten thousand herds, there strays 

But one along yon river's maze, — 

The Gael, of plain and river heir, 

Shall, with strong hand, redeem his share. 

Where live the mountain chiefs who hold, 

That plundering Lowland field and fold 

Is aught but retribution true ? 

Seek other cause 'gainst Roderick Uhu.'' — 



Answer'd Fitz-James, — "And, if I sought, 

Think'st thou no other could be brought ? 

What deem ye of my path waylaid ? 

My life given o'er to ambuscade ? "' — 

" As of a meed to i-ashness due : 

Hadst thou sent warning fair and true,— 

I seek my hound, or falcon strav'd, 

I seek, good faith, a Highland maid, — 

Free hadst thou been to come and go ; 

But secret path marks secret foe. 

Nor yet, for this, even as a spy, 

Hadst thou, unheard, been doom'd to die, 

Save to fulfil an augury." — ■ 

" Well, let it pass ; nor will I now 

Fresh cause of enmity avow. 

To chafe thy mood and cloud thy brow. 

Enough, I am by promise tied 

To match m^ with this man of pride ; 

Twice have I sought Clan-Alpine's glen 

In peace; but when I come agen, 

I come with banner, brand, and bow, 

As leader seeks his mortal foe. 

For love-lorn swain, in lady's bower. 

Ne'er panted for the appointed iiour, 

As I, until before me stand 

This rebel Chieftain and his band ! " — 



"Have, then, thy wish!" — He whistled 

shrill. 
And he was answer'd from the liill ; 



Wild as the scream of the curlew, 

From crag to crag the signal flew. 

Instant, through copse and heath, arose 

Bonnets and spears and bended bows ; 

On right, on left, above, below, 

Sprung up at once the lurking foe ; 

From shingles gray their lances start, 

The bracken bush sends forth the dart. 

The rushes and the willow-wand 

Are bristling into axe and brand, 

And every tuft of broom gives life 

To plaided warrior arm'd for strife. 

That whistle garrison'd-the glen 

At once with full five hundred men, 

As if the yawning hill to heaven 

A subterranean host had given. 

Watching their leader's beck and will, 

All silent there they stood, and still. 

Like the loose crags, whose threatening 

mass 
Lay tottering o'er the hollow pass, 
As if an infant's touch could urge 
Their headlojig passage down the verge, 
With step and weapon forward flung, 
Upon the mountain-side they hung. 
The Mountaineer cast glance of pride 
Along Benledi's living side. 
Then fix'd his eye and sable brow 
Full on Fitz-james — " How say'st thou 

now ? 
These are Clan-Alpine's warriors true ; 
And, Saxon, — I am Roderick Dhu I " 

X. 

Fitz-James was brave : — Though to his 

heart 
The life-blood thrill'd with sudden start, 
He mann'd himself with dauntless air, 
Return'd the chief his hauglity stare, 
His back against a rock he bore. 
And firmly placed his foot before : — 
" Come one, come all ! this rock shall fly 
From its firm base as soon as I." 
Sir Roderick mark'd — and in his eyes 
Respect was mingled with surprise, 
And the stern joy which warriors feel 
In foemen worthy of their steel. 
Short space he stood — then waved his hand 
Down sunk the disappearing band ; 
Each warrior vanish'd where he stood, 
In broom or bracken, heath or wood ; 
Sunk brand and spear and bended bow, 
In osiers pale and copses low ; 
It seem'd as if their mother Earth 
Had swallow'd up her warlike birth: 
The wind's last breath had toss'd in air, 
Pennon, and plaid, and plumage fair, — 






" Come one, come all ! this rock shall fly 
From its firm base as soon as I." 

Lady of the Lake. — Canto V., lo. 




77//'.' I Al^V OF rill': I.AKI', 



'I'lic next hut swo])t ;i lone liill-sidc, 
Wlici'c lic;itli ;u\(l li-in were vv.iviiin vviil 
rii<; sun's last i;l;uu(- was j/linh-d hack 
l''i()Ui spear ami uliiivc, I'loni ^wx'iy. 

i;u:k,- 
Thi- ncxl, all iimvllrdcil •\\u\\v 
• 111 bi-ackcii i;ri'cii and (old r.ray sluiic. 



l''it/.-laiiU'S lixik'd KiiHid— yd sc:arc(' l)i'- 

hcvi;d 
Tlir witness that his sie.l'l I'ei'eived ; 
Sucii .ippaiiliou well iniidil seem 
J)elusi(iM (if a dreadliil dream. 
Sir Kodeiiek in suspense in- eyed, 
And to his look tiie Chief ri'plied, 
" l''ear nought — nay, that I need not say — 
r>ul -doubt not aui^lit from mine array. 
'I'liou ail my nuest ; - 1 pledged my word 
As far as Coilantotjle fend : 
Nor would I rail a il.uisman's brand 
h'or aid aj^ainst one valiant li.nid, 
'I'IioukIi on our slrih; lay cvcmv vale 
Kent by tho Sa.Non from tlu; (iael. 
So move wc: on ; —I only meant 
To show the ii^eil on which you leant, 
I )eemim; this path yon miid't pursues 
Willinut a iiass from Kndeii(k Dim."'" 
'I'liey moved;--! said I'itz-James was 

biave, 
As ever knight that belted j^laive ; 
Yet dare not say, that now liis blood 
Kept on its Wont and temper'd Hood, 
As, followini; Koderiek's stride, heilrew 
'I'bat seemini; lonesomi- patliwav Ibrouuli, 
Which yet, by leaiful proof, w.is rife 
VVitli lances, lb. il, b. I.d.e hi', life, 
VV.ihed but si'.;n,il from a e.iiide, 
So lat(! dislKinor'il an<l delled. 
I'A'ci', by stealth, his cyi; soULdit roimd 
The vaiiisliM guardians of llie j;round, 
^nd still, from cops(! and iioatluM' dei'p, 
b'ancy saw spear and broadsword pee|>. 
And in the jilover's shi-illy stiain, 
The signal vvbislle heard ai;ain. 
Nor breathed he free, till far liebind 
The pass was left ; for then (bey wind 
Alonija wide and level i;reen, 
Where neither trt-e noi- tuft was seen. 
Nor rnsli, nor bush i)f broom was ne.u', 
'I'd liid(; a bonnet or a sjw'ar. 



Tin; Chief in silence stiode before, 
And n-ach'd that torrent's soundinK shore, 
Which, daui;hler of three miRhty lakes. 
I'roni Vcnn«char in silver breaks, 



145 



Mseless 



Sweeps IhioM'.di the pl.iin, .1 

mines 
On Itothaslle the monlderin),' Imi •., 
Where Koine, the I'anpress of the world, 
Of yore her eai;le wintjs iinfiuTd.''" 
And here hiscolii'S(! tlie ('hiellaiii staid, 
Threw down his lar^id; and his plaid, 
.\nd lo \\w. Lowland warrior said : — 
" Mold .Saxon I to his promise just, 
V'ich-AIpine has (lisch;\r).;ed his trust. 
This nuirderous C'hief, this ruthless man, 
This head of a rebellicjiis clan, 
Math led Ihee safe IhroUL'Ji w.it( h .mil w.ird 
l''ar ii.isl ( ■|.m-,'\lpini''s outmost I'.u.ud. 
Now, man to man, and steel to steel, 
A chieftain's vengeance thou shall ted. 
.See here, all vantat;eless 1 stand, 
.'\rm'd, like thyself, with siiinle br.md ; " 
I'or this is Coilantonh' ford. 
And thou niiist keep thei' with thy sw<ird." 

XIII, 

The Saxon jiaused : — " I lu^'er delav'd, 
When foemaii bad(' me draw my bl.ide ; 
Nay, moll', brave ( 'hief, 1 vow'd thy di'ath ' 
Vei: sure thy l.iir .nid iMiierous faith. 
And my deep drbl Im lite preserved, 
A better meeil h.ive well deserved : 
( !an noii^ld: hut blood our fend atom- ? 
\\v. there no means i' '' — "No, Stranger, 

none ! 
And heai, - to lire thy lla);j;inK zeal, — 
The .S.ixon cause- rests oil thy steel ; 
l''(ir thus spoke i''ate, by prophet i)red 
lletween the liviin; and the deail : 
' Who spills (he loremost hiemaii's life, 
His parly coni|Ueis in Ihe strife.' " — 
•' Then, i)V my word," tiie Saxon said, 
" Till- ridilh^ is already re.id. 
Seek yonder lirake iieiieath the < lilt, -- 
There lies Ked Murdoch, staik ami stiff, 
Thus b'ate has solved her prophecy. 
Then yield to i''ate, and ni^t to me. 
To [ainc-s, at Sliiiiii);, let us ^o. 
When, if thou wilt be slill his foe, 
( )r if the Kiiif,' shall not a)i;reR 
To i;i-.uit thei- nr.ice and lavor free, 
I pli(;lit mine honor, oath, and word. 
Thai, to thy native sticie.'.ths restored' 
With each advalita'.'.e shalt thou stan((, 
That ai<ls theo now to !;uard thy land."' 



Dark liKhtiiiii); (la.lTd from KodctrickN 

eye— 
"Soars thy pre.sumpliou, IIumi, so lii);h, 



^==^. 



j£ 




146 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Because a wretched kern ye slew, 
Homage to name to Roderick Dhu ? 
He yields not, he, to man nor Fate ! 
Thou add'st but fuel to my hate : — 
My clansman's blood demands revenge. 
Not yet prepared ? — By heaven, I change 
My thought, and hold thy valor light 
As that of some vain carpet knight. 
Who ill deserved my courteous care, 
And whose best boast is but to wear 
A braid of his fair lady's hair.'' — 
" I thank thee, Roderick, for the word ! 
It nerves my heart, i.t steels my sword ; 
For I have sworn this braid to stain 
In the best blood that warms thy vein. 
Now, truce, farewell ! and, ruth, begone ! — 
Yet think not that by thee alone. 
Proud Chief ! can courtesy be shown ! 
Though not from copse, or heath, or cairn, 
Start at my whistle clansmen stern, 
Of this small horn one feeble blast 
Would fearful odds against thee cast. 
But fear not — doubt not — which thou 

wilt— 
We try this quarrel hilt to hilt." — 
Then each at once his falchion drew, 
Each on the ground his scabbard threw. 
Each look'd to sun, and stream, and plain, 
As what they ne'er might see again ; 
Then foot, and point, and eye opposed, 
In dubious strife they darkly closed. 



Ill fared it then with Roderick Dhu, 
That on the field his targe he threw, -^^ 
Whose brazen studs and tough bull-hide 
Had death so often dash'd aside ; 
For, train'd abroad his arms to wield, 
Fitz-James's blade was sword and shield. 
He practised every pass and ward, 
To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard ; 
While less expert, though stronger far, 
The Gael maintain'd unequal war. 
Three times in closing strife they stood. 
And thrice the Saxon's blade drank blood ; 
No stinted draught, no scanty tide. 
The gushing flood the tartans dyed. 
Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain. 
And shower'd his blows like wintry rain ; 
And, as firm rock, or castle-roof. 
Against the winter shower is proof, 
The foe, invulnerable still, 
Foil'd his wild rage by steady skill : 
Till, at advantage ta'en, his brand 
Forced Roderick's weapon from his hand, 
And backward borne upon the lea, 
Brought the proud chieftain to his knee. 



" Now, yield thee, or by Him who made 
The world, thy heart's blood dyes my 

blade ! " 
" Thy threats, thy mercy, I defy / 
Let recreant yield, who fears to die.'"' 
— Like adder darting from his coil, 
Like wolf that dashes through the toil. 
Like mountain-cat who guards her young, 
Full at Fitz-James's throat he sprung ; 
Received, but reck'd not of a wound. 
And lock'd his arms his foeman round.— 
Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own ! 
No maiden's hand is round thee thrown ! 
That desperate grasp thy frame might feel, 
Through bars of brass and triple steel ! — 
They tug, they strain ! down, down they gOj 
The Gael above, Fitz-James below : 
The Chieftain's gripe his throat compress'd. 
His knee was planted on his breast ; 
His clotted locks he backward threw, 
Across his brow his hand he drew. 
From blood and mist to clear his sight, 
Then gleam'd aloft his dagger bright 1 — 
— But hate and fury ill supplied 
The stream of life's exhausted tide. 
And all too late the advantage came, 
To turn the odds of deadly game ; 
For, while the dagger gleam'd on high, 
Reel'd soul and sense, reel'd brain and eye, 
Down came the blow ! but in the heath 
The erring blade found bloodless sheath. 
The struggling foe may now unclasp 
The fainting Chief's relaxing grasp ; 
Unwounded from the dreadful close, 
But breathless all, Fitz-James arose. 

XVII. 

He falter'd thanks to Heaven for life, 

Redeem'd, unhoped, from desperate strife ; 

Next on his foe his look he cast, 

Whose every gasp appear'd his last ; 

In Roderick's gore he dipp'd the braid, — 

" Poor Blanche 1 thy wrongs are dearly 

paid : 
Yet with thy foe must die or live. 
The praise that Faith and Valor give. 
With that he blew a bugle-note. 
Undid the collar from his throat, 
Unbonneted, and by the wave 
Sate down his brow and hands to lave. 
Then faint afar are heard the feet 
Of rushing steeds in gallop fleet ; 
The sounds increase, and now are seen 
Four mounted squires in Lincoln green: 
TwG who bear lance, and two who lead, 
By loosen'd rein, a saddled steed ■ 







THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



'47 



Each onward held his headlong course, 

And by Fitz-James rein'd up his horse, — 

Witii wonder view'd the bloody spot — 

— " Exclaim not, gallants! question not. — 

You, Herbert and Luffness, alight. 

And bind the wounds ot yonder knight ; 

Let the gray palfrey bear his weight, 

We destined for a fairer freight, 

And bring him on to Stirling straight : 

1 will before at better speed, 

To seek fresh horse and fitting weed. 

The sun rides high ; — I must be boime,* 

To see the archer-game at noon : 

But lightly Bayard clears the lea,^ 

De Vaux and Herries, follow me. 

XVIII. 

" Stand, Bayard, stand ! " — the steed 

obey'd, 
With arching neck and bending head, 
And glancing eye and quivering ear. 
As if he loved his lord to hear. 
No foot Fitz-James in stirrup staid. 
No grasp upon the saddle laid. 
But wreath'd his left hand in the mane. 
And lightly bounded from the plain, 
Turn'd on the horse his armed heel, 
And stirr'd his courage with the steel. 
Bounded the fiery steed in air. 
The rider sate erect and fair, 
Then like a bolt from steel crossbow 
Forth launch' d, along the plain they go. 
They dash'd that rapid torrent througli, 
And up Carhonie's hill they flew ; 
Still at the gallop prick'd the Knight, 
His merry-men follow'd as they might. 
Along thy banks, swift Teith ! they ride. 
And in the race they mock'd thy tide ; 
Torry and Lendrick now are past, 
And Deanstown lies behind them cast : 
They rise, the banner'd towers of Doune, 
They sink in distant woodland soon ; 
Blair-Drummond sees the hoof strike fire. 
They sweep like breeze through Ochter- 

tyre; 
They mark just glance and disappear 
The lofty brow of ancient Kier ; 
They bathe their courser's sweltering sides. 
Dark Forth ! amid thy sluggish tides, 
And on the opposing shore take ground. 
With plash, with scramble, and with 

bound. 
Right-hand thev leave thy cliffs, Craig- 

Forth ! 
And soon the bulwark of the North, 



* Boune, prepared 



Gray Stirling, fvith her towers and town, 
Upon their fieet career look'd down. 



As up the flinty path they strain'd 

Sudden his steed the leader rein'd ; 

A signal to his squire he flung. 

Who instant to his stirrup sprung : — 

" Seest thou, De Vaux, yon woodsman gray, 

Who town-ward holds the rocky waj-. 

Of stature tall and poor array ? 

Mark'st thou the firm, yet active stride, 

With which he scales the mountain-side ? 

Know'st thou from whence he comes, or 

whom ? ' ' — 
" No, by my word ; — a burly groom 
He seems, who in the field or chase 
A baron's train would nobly grace.'' — 
" Out, out, De Vaux ! can fear supply, 
And jealousy, no sharper eye ? 
.4far, ere to the hill he drew. 
That stately form and step I knew ; 
Like form in Scotland is not seen. 
Treads not such step on Scottish green. 
'Tis James of Douglas, by Saint Serle i 
The uncle of the banish'd Earl. 
Away, away, to court, to show 
The near approach of dreaded foe : 
The King must stand upon his guard : 
Douglas and he must meet prepared." 
Then right-hand wheei'd their steeds, and 

straight. 
They won the castle's postern gate. 

XX. 

The Douglas, who had bent his way 
From Cambus-Kenneth's abbey gray, 
Now, as he climb'd the rocky shelf. 
Held sad communion with himself I — 
" Yes, all is true my fears could frame : 
A prisoner lies the noble Graeme, 
And fiery Roderick soon will feel 
The vengeance of the royal steel. 
I, only ], can ward their fate, — 
God grant the ransom come not late ! 
The Abbess hath her promise given, 
My child shall be the bride of Heaven ;— 
■ — Be pardon'd one repining tear ! 
For He, who gave her, knows how dear, 
How excellent ! but that is by. 
And now my business is — to die. 
— Ye towers I within whose circuit dread 
A Douglas by his sovereign bled ; 
kwA thou, O sad and fatal mound ! * 
That oft hast heard the death-axe sound, 



* A mound on the N. E. of Stirling Castle 
where State criminals were executed. 





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148 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



As on the noblest of the iand 

Fell the stern headsman's bloody hand, — 

The dungeon, block, and nameless tomb 

Prepare — for Douglas seeks his doom ! 

— But hark ! what blithe and jolly peal 

Makes the Franciscan steeple reel ? 

And see ! upon the crowded street, 

In motley groups what masquers meet ! 

Banner and pageant, pipe and drum, 

And merry morrice-dancers come. 

I guess, by all this quaint array, 

The burghers hold their sports to-day.-" 

[aunes will be there ; he loves such show, 

Where the good yeoman bends his bow. 

And the tough wrestler foils his foe. 

As well as where, in proud career, 

The high-borne tilter shivers spear. 

I'll follow to the Castle-park, 

And play my prize ; — King James shall 

mark, 
If age has tamed these sinews stark. 
Whose force so oft, in happier days, 
His boyish wonder loved to praise.'' 



The Castle gates were open flung, 

The quivering drawbridge rock'd and 

rung. 
And echo'd loud the flinty street 
Beneath the coursers' clattering feet, 
As slowly down the steep descent 
Fair Scotland's King and nobles went. 
While all along the crowded way 
Was jubilee and loud huzza. 
And ever James was bending low, 
To his while jennet's saddle-bow, 
Dofifing his cap to city dame, 
Who smiled and blush'd for pride and 

shame. 
And well the simperer might be vain, — 
He chose the fairest of the train. 
Gravely he greets each city sire, 
Commends each pageant's quaint attire. 
Gives to the dancers thanks aloud. 
And smiles and nods upon the crowd. 
Who rend the heavens with their acclaims, 
"Long live the Commons' King, King 

James ! '' 
Behind the King throng'd peer and knight, 
And noble dame and damsel bright, 
Whose fiery steeds ill brook'd the stay 
Of the steep street and crowded way. 
— But in the train you might discern 
Dark lowering brow and visage stern ; 
There nobles mourn'd their pride re- 

strain'd,. 
And the mean burgher's joys disdain'd ; 



And chiefs, who, hostage for their clan, 
Were each from home a banish'd man, 
There thought upon their own gray tower, 
Their waving woods, their feudal power, 
-■\nd deem'd themselves a shameful part 
Of pageant which they cursed in heart. 

Now, in the Castle-park, drew out 
Their checker'd bands the joyous rout. 
There morricers, with bell at heel, 
And blade in hand, their mazes wheel, 
But chief, beside the butts, there stand 
Bold Robin Hood *^ and all his band,— 
Friar Tuck with quarterstaff and cowl, 
Old Scathelocke with his surly scowl. 
Maid Marion, fair as ivory bone. 
Scarlet, and Mutch, and Little John ; 
Their bugles challenge all that will, • 
In archery to prove their skill. 
The Douglas bent a bow of might, — 
His first shaft centred in the white, 
And when in turn he shot again. 
His second split the first in twain. 
From the King's hand must Douglas take 
A silver dart, the archer's stake ; 
Fondly he watch'd, with watery eye. 
Some answering glance of sympathy, — 
No kind emotion made reply ! 
Indifferent as to archer wight. 
The monarch gave the arrow bright. 



Now, clear the ring ! for, hand to hand, 
The manly wrestlers take their stand. 
Two o'er the rest superior rose. 
And proud demanded mightier foes. 
Nor call'd in vain ; for Douglas came. 
— For life is Hugh of Larbert lame ; 
Scarce better John of Alloa's fare, 
Whom senseless home his comrades bear. 
Prize of the wrestling match, the King 
To Douglas gave a golden ring,'*' 
While coldly glanced his eye of blue. 
As frozen drop of wintry dew. 
Douglas would speak, but in his breast 
His struggling soul his words suppress'dr 
Indignant then he turn'd him where 
Their arms the brawny yeomen bare, 
To hurl the massive bar in air. 
When each his utmost strength had 

shown, 
The Douglas rent an earth-fast stone 
From its deep bed, then heaved it high, 
And sent the fragment through the sky, 
A rood beyond the farthest mark ; — ■ 
And still in Stirling's roj-al park, 






THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



149 



The gray-hair'd rires, who know the past, 
To strangers point the Douglas-cast, 
And morahze on the decay 
Of Scottish strength in modern day. 

XXIV. 

The vale with loud applauses rang, 
The Ladies' Rock sent back the clang. 
The King, with look unmoved, bestow'd 
K purse well fill'd vith pieces broad. 
Indignant smiled the Douglas proud, 
And threw the gold among the crowd, 
Who now, with anxious wonder, scan, 
An«l sharper glance, the dark gray man : 
Till whispers rose among the throng. 
That heart so free, and hand so strong, 
Must to the Douglas blood belong ; 
The old men mark'd, and shook the head, 
To see his hair with silver spread. 
And wink'd aside, and told each son. 
Of feats upon the English done. 
Ere Douglas of the stalwart hand 
Was exiled from his native land. 
The women praised his stately form. 
Though wreck'd by many a winter's storm ! 
The youth with awe and wonder saw 
His strength surpassing Nature's law. 
Thus judged, as is their wont, the crowd. 
Till murmur lose to clamors loud. 
But not a glance from that proud ring 
Of peers who circled round the King, 
With Douglas held communion kind. 
Or call'd the banish'd man to mind;, 
No, not from those who, at the chase, 
Once held his side the honor'd place, 
Begirt his board, and, in the field. 
Found safety underneath his shield ; 
For he, whom royal eyes disown, 
W'hen was his form to courtiers known ! 

XXV. 

The Monarch saw the gambols flag. 
And bade let loose a gallant stag, 
Whose pride, the holiday to crown. 
Two favorite greyhounds should pull 

down. 
That venison free, and Bordeaux wine. 
Might serve the archery to dine. 
But Lufra, — whom from Douglas' side 
Nor bribe nor threat could e'er divide, 
The fleetest hound in all the North,- 
Brave Lufra saw, and darted forth. 
She left the royal hounds mid-way. 
And dashing on the antler'd prey. 
Sunk her sharp muzzle in his flank. 
And deep the flowing life-blood drank. 
The King's stout huntsman saw the sport 
By strange intruder broken short, 



Came up, and with his leash unbound. 
In anger struck the noble hound. 
— The Douglas had endured, that morn, 
The King's cold look, the nobles' scorn, 
And last, and worst to spirit proud, 
Had borne the pity of the crowd ; 
But Lufra had been fondly bred. 
To share his board, to watch his bed, 
And oft would Ellen Lufra's neck 
In maiden glee with garlands deck ; 
They were such playmates, that with nam 
Of Lufra, Ellen's image came. 
His stifled wrath is brimming high. 
In darken'd brow and flashing eye: 
As waves before the bark divide, 
The crowd gave way before his stride ; 
Needs but a buffet and no more. 
The groom lies senseless in his gore. 
Such blow no other hand could deal. 
Though gauntleted in glove of steel. 



Then clamor'd loud the royal train. 
And brandish'd swords and staves amain. 
But stern the Baron's warning — " Back ! 
Back, on your lives, ye menial pack ! 
Beware the Douglas. — Yes ! behold. 
King James ! the Douglas, doom'd of old, 
And vainly sought for near and far, 
A victim to atone the war, 
A willing victim, now attends, 
Nor craves thy grace but for his friends."— 
■' Thus is my clemency repaid ? 
Presumptuous Lord ! " the monarch said ; 
" Of thy misproud ambitious clan, 
Thou, James of Bothwell, wert the man. 
The only man, in whom a foe 
My woman-mercy would not know : 
But shall a Monarch's presence brook 
Injurious blow, and haughty look ? — 
What, ho 1 the Captain of our Guard ! 
Give the offender fitting ward, — 
Break off the sports 1 " — for tumult rose, 
And yeomen 'gan to bend their bows, — 
'' Break off the sports !" he said, and frown'd 
■' And bid our horsemen clear the ground." 



Then uproar wild and misarray 
Marr'd the fair form of festal day. 
The horsemen prick'd among the crowd, 
Repell'd by threats and insult loud ; 
To earth are borne the old and weak, 
The timorous fly, the women shriek ; 
With flint, with shaft, with staff, with bar 
The hardier urge tumultuous war. 





A 




^50 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



At once round Douglas darkly sweep 
The royal spears in circle deep, 
And slowly scale the pathway steep ; 
While on the rear in thunder pour 
The rabble with disorder'd roar. 
With grief the noble Douglas saw 
The Commons rise against the law, 
And to the leading soldier said, — 
" Sir John of Hyndford ! 'twas my blade 
That knighthood on thy shoulder laid ; 
For that good deed, permit me then 
A word with these misguided men. 



" Hear, gentle friends ! ere yet ior me 

Ye break the bands of fealty. 

My life, my honor, and my cause, 

I tender free to Scotland's laws. 

Are these so weak as must require 

The aid of your misguided ire ! 

Or, if I suffer causeless wrong, 

Is then my selfish rage so strong. 

My sense of public weal so low. 

That, for mean vengeance on a foe. 

Those cords of love I should unbind. 

Which knit my country and my kind ? 

Oh no ! Believe, in yonder tower 

It will not soothe my captive hour. 

To know those spears our foes should 

dread, 
For me in kindred gore are red ; 
To know, in fruitless brawl begun. 
For me, that mother wails her son ; 
For me, that widow's mate expires ; 
For me, that orphans weep their sires , 
That patriots mourn insulted laws ; 
And curse the Douglas for the cause. 
O let your patience ward such ill. 
And keep your right to love me still ! " 



The crowd's wild fury simK again 

In tears, as tempests melt in rain. 

With lifted hands and eyes, they pray'd 

For blessings on his generous head, 

Who for his country felt alone. 

And prized her blood beyond his own. 

Old men, upon the verge of life, 

Bless'd him who staid the civil strife ; 

And mothers held their babes on high, 

The self-devoted Chief to spy. 

Triumphant over wrongs and ire. 

To whom the prattlers owed a sire : 

Even the rough soldier's heart was moved ; 

As if behind some bier beloved. 

With trailing arms and drooping head. 

The Douglas up the hill he led, 



And at the Castle's battled verge 
With sighs resign'd his honor'd charge. 

XXX. 

The offended Monarch rode apart. 
With bitter thought and swelling heart, 
And would not now vouchsafe again 
Through Stirling streets to lead his train. 
" O Lennox, who would wish to rule 
This changeling crowd, this common fool .'' 
Hear'st thou,'' he said, " the loud accLiim, 
With which they shout the Douglas name 
With like acclaim, the vulgar throat 
Strain'd for King James their morning 

note ; 
With like acclaim they hail'd the day 
When first I broke the Douglas' sway ; 
And like acclaim would Douglas greet. 
If he could hurl me from my seat. 
Who o'er the herd would wish to reign, 
Fantastic, fickle, fierce, and vain ! 
Vain as the leaf upon the stream, 
And fickle as a changeful dream ; 
Fantastic as a wonian's mood. 
And fierce as Frenzy's fever'd blood. 
Thou many-headed monster-thing, 

who would wish to be thy king ! 

XXXI. 

" But soft ! what messenger of speed 
Spurs hitherward his panting steed ? 

1 guess his cognizance afar— 

What from our cousin, John of Mar ? " 

" He prays, my liege, your sports keep 

bound 
Within the safe and guarded ground : 
For rome foul purpose yet unknown,— 
Most sure for evil to the throne, — 
The outlaw'd Chieftain, Roderick Dhu. 
Has summon'd his rebellious crew ; 
'Tis said, in James of Bothwell's aid 
These loose banditti stand array'd. 
The Earl of Mar, this morn, from Doune 
To break their muster march'd, and soon 
Your grace will hear of battle fought ; 
But earnestly the Earl besought, 
Till for such danger he provide, 
With scanty train you will not ride."— 

XXXII. 

" Thou wartrst me I have done amiss,— 
I should have earlier look'd to this : 
I lost it in this bustling day. 
— Retrace with speed thy former vv'ay ; 
Spare not for spoiling of thy steed. 
The best of mine shall be thy meed- 
Say to our faithful Lord of Mar, 
We do forbid the intended war ; 






h 



THE LAD Y OF THE LAKE- 



151 



Roderick, this morn, in single fight, 
Was made our prisoner by a knight ; 
And Douglas liath himself and cause 
Submitted to our kingdom's laws. 
The tidings of their leaders lost 
Will soon dissolve the mountain host, 
Nor would we that the vulgar feel, 
For their Chief's crimes, avenging steel. 
Bear Mar our message, Braco : fly ! " — 
He turri'd his steed, — " My liege, I hie. — 
Vet, ere I cross this lily lawn, 
I fear the broadswords will be drawn." 
The turf the flying courser spurn'd, 
And to his towers the King return'd. 

XXXIII. 

Ill with King James's mood that day 

Suited gay feast and minstrel lay ; 

Soon were dismiss'd the courtly throng, 

.\nd soon cut short the festal song. 

Nor less upon the sadden'd town 

The evening sunk in sorrow down. 

The burghers spoke of civil jar, 

Of rumor'd feuds and mountain war. 

Of Moray, Mar, and Roderick Dhu, 

All up in arms : — the Douglas too, 

They mourn'd him pent within the hold, 

" Where stout Earl William was of old '' *- 

And there his word the speaker staid, 

And finger on his lip he laid. 

Or pointed to his dagger blade. 

But jaded horsemen, from the west, 

At evening to the Castle press'd; 

.A.nd busy talkers said they bore 

Tidings of fight on Katrine's shore ; 

At noon the deadly fray begun. 

And lasted till the set of sun. 

Thus giddy rumor shook the town, 

Till closed the Night her pennons brown. 



CANTO SIXTH. 

THE GUARD-ROOM. 
I. 

'The sun, awakening, through the smoky 
air 
Of the dark city casts a sullen glance, 
Rousing each caitiff to his task of care, 

Of sinful man the sad inheritance ; 
Summoning revellers from the lagging 
dance. 
Scaring the prowling robber to his den ; 



* He had been stabbed by James II. in Stir- 
ling Castle. 



Gilding on battled tpwer the warder's lance. 
And warning student pale to leave his 

pen. 
And )ield his drowsy eyes to the kind nurse 

of men. 

What various scenes, and, O ! what scenes 
of woe. 
Are witness'd by that red and struggling 
beam ! 
The fever'd patient, from his pallet low. 
Through crowded hospital beholds it 
stream ; 
The ruin'd maiden trembles at its gleam, 
The debtor wakes to thought of gyve and 
jail. 
The love-lorn wretch starts from tormenting 
dream ; 
The wakeful mother, by the glimmering 
pale. 
Trims her sick infant's couch, and soothes 
his feeble wail. 



At dawn the towers of Stirling rang 
With soldier-step and weapon-clang. 
While drums, with rolling note, foretell 
Relief to weary sentinel. 
Through narrow loop and casement barr'd, 
The sunbeams sought the Court of Guard, 
And, struggling with the smoky air, 
Deaden'd the torches' yellow glare. 
In comfortless alliance shone 
The lights through arch of blacken'd stone, 
And show'd wild shapes in garb of war, 
Faces deform'd with beard and scar. 
All haggard from the midnight watch, 
And fever'd with the stern debauch ; 
For the oak table's massive board, 
Flooded with wine, with fragments stored, 
And beakers drain'd, and cups o'erthrown, 
Show'd in what sport the night had flowrv 
Some, weary, snored on floor and bench. 
Some labor'd still their thirst to quench ; 
Some, chill'd with watching, spread their 

hands 
O'er the huge chimney's dying brands. 
While round them, or beside them flung, 
.At every step their harness rung. 



These drew not for their fields the sword, 
Like tenants of a feudal lord, 
Nor own'd the patriarchal claim 
Of chieftain in their leader's name ; 
Adventurers they, from far who roved, 
To live by battle which they loved.-*^ 



w 




s 



^5: 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS 



There the Italian's clouded face ; 

The swarthy Spaniard's there you trace ; 

The mountain-loving Switzer there 

More freely breathed in mountain air ; 

The Fleming there despised the soil, 

That paid so ill the laborer's toil ; 

Their rolls show'd French and German 

name ; 
And merry England's exiles came, 
To sliare, with ill conceal'd disdain, 
Of Scotland's pay the scanty gain. 
All brave in arms, well train'd to wield 
The heavy halberd, brand, and shield ; 
In camps licentious, wild, and bold ; 
In pillage fierce and uncontroll'd ; 
And now, by holytide and feast. 
From rules of discipline released. 

IV. 

They held debate of bloody fray. 
Fought; 'twixt Loch Katrine and Achray, 
Fierce was their speech, and, 'mid their 

words, 
Their hands oft grappled to their swords ; 
Nor sunli their tone to spare tlie ear 
Of wounded comrades groaning near, 
Whose mangled limbs, and bodies gored, 
Bore token of the mountain sv;ord, 
Though, neighboring to the Court of 

Guard, 
Their prayers and feverish wails were heard ! 
Sad burden to the ruffian joke. 
And savage oath by fury spoke ! — 
At length up-started John of Brent, 
A yeoman from the banks of Trent 
A stranger to respect or fear. 
In peace a chaser of the deer, 
In host a hardy mutineer, 
But still the boldest of the crew. 
When deed of danger was to do. 
He grieved, that day, their games cut short, 
And marr'd the dicer's brawling sport, 
And shouted loud, " Renew the bowl 1 
And, while a merry catch I troll. 
Let each the buxom chorus bear. 
Like brethren of the brand and spear." 



soldier's song. 

Our vicar still preaches that Peter and 
Poule 

Laid a swinging long curse on the bonny 
brown bowl, 

That there's wrath and despair ia the bon- 
ny blaek-jack, 

And the seven headly sins in a flagon of 
sack: 



Yet whoop, Barnaby ! off with thy liquor, 
Drink upsees * out, and a fig for the vicar ! 

Our vicar he calls it damnation to sip 
The ripe ruddy dew of a woman's dear lip. 
Says, that Beelzebub lurks in her kerchief 

so sly. 
And Apollyon shoots darts from her merry 

black eye. 
Y^t whoop. Jack ! kiss Gillian the quicker, 
Till she bloom like a rose, and a fig for the 

vicar ! 

Our vicar thus preaches — and wh\ should 

he not ? 
For the dues of his cure are the placket and 

pot 
And 'tis right of his office poor laymen to 

lurch, 
WIio infringe the domains of our good 

Mother Church. 
Yet whoop, bully-boys ! off with your 

liquor. 
Sweet Marjorie's the word, and a fig for the 

vicar 1 

VI. 

The warder's challenge, heard without, 

Staid in mid-roar the merry shout. 

A soldier to the portal went, — 

" Here is old Bertram, sirs, of Ghent ; 

And,— beat for jubilee the di um ! 

A maid and minstrel with him come." 

Bertram, a Fleming, gray and scarr'd. 

Was entering now the Court q\ Guard, 

A harper with him, and in plaid 

All muffled close, a mountain maid. 

Who backward shrunk to 'scape the view 

Of the loose scene and boisterous crew. 

" What news "! " they roar'd : — " I only 

know, 
From noon till eve we fought with foe. 
As wild and as imtameable 
As the rude mountains where they dwell , 
On both sides store of blood is lost, 
Nor much success can either boast." 
" But whence thy captives, friend ? suck 

spoil 
As theirs must needs reward thy toil. 
Old dost thou wax, and wars grow sharp ; 
Thou now hast glee-maiden and harp ! 
Get thee an ape, and trudge the land. 
The leader of a juggler band.'' ^') 

VII. 

" Nvj, comrade ; — no such fortune mine. 
After the fight these sought cur line, 

• A Dutch health, or drinking; word. 





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Th 


THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 153 






at aged harper and the girl, 


The high-born maiden ill could brook 




And, having audience of the Ear], 


The scanning of his curious look 






Mar bade I should purvey them steed, 


And dauntless eye ; — and yet, in soothj 






And bring them hithervvard with speed. 


Young Lewis was a generous youth ; 


J 




Forbear your mirtli and rude alarm, 


But Ellen's lovely face and mien, 






Nor none shall do them shame or liarm." — 


111 suited to the garb and scene, 






*' Hear ye his boast ? " cried John of Brent, 


Might lightly bear construction strange, 






Ever to strife and jangling bent ; 


And give loose fancy scope to range. 






" Shall he strike doe beside our lodge, 


" Welcome to Stirling towers, fair maid! 






And yet the jealous niggard grudge 


Come ye to seek a champion's aid. 






To pay the forester his fee ? 


On palfrey white, with harper hoar, 






I'll have my share, howe'er it be. 


Like errant damosel of yore ? 






Despite of Moray, Mar, or thee." 


Does thy high quest a knight require, 






Bertram his forward step withstood ; 


Or may the venture suit a squire ? " 






And, burning with his vengeful mood. 


Her dark eye flash'd ; — -she paused and 






Old Allan, though unfit for strife. 


sigh'd,- 






Laid hand upon his dagger-knife ; 


" what have I to do with pride ! 






But Ellen bokliy stepp'd between, 


Through scenes of sorrow, shame, and 






And dropp'd at once the tartan screen : — 


strife, 






So, from his morning cloud, appears 


A suppliant for a father's life, 






The sun of May, through summer tears. 


I crave an audience of the King. 






The savage soldiery, amazed. 


Behold, to back my suit, a ring. 






As on descended angel gazed ; 


The royal pledge of grateful claims, 






Even hardy Brent, abash'd and tamed, 


Given by the Monarch to Fitz-James." 






Stood half admiring, half ashamed. 








VIII. 

Boldly she spoke, — " Soldiers, attend ! 


X. 

The signet-ring young Lewis took. 






My father was the soldier's friend ; 


With cleep respect and alter'd look ; 






Cheer'd him in camps, in marches led, 


And said, — " This ring our duties own ; 






And with him in the battle bled. 


And pardon, if to worth unknown. 






Not from the valiant, or the strong, 


In semblance mean obscurely veil'd, 






Should exile's daughter suffer wrong." — 


Lady, in aught my folly fail'd. 






Answer'd De Brent, most forward still 


Soon as the day flings wide his gates. 






In every feat or good or ill, — 


The King shall know what suitor waits. 






" I shame me of the part I play'd : 


Please you, meanwhile, in fitting bower 






And thou an outlaw's child, poor maid ! 


Repose you till his waking hour ; 






An outlaw I by forest laws. 


Female attendance shall obey 






And merry Needwood knows the cause. 


Your hest. for service or array. 






Poor Rose, — if Rose be living now," — 


Permit I marshal you the way." 






He wiped his iron eye and brow, — 


But, ere she follow'cl, with the grace 






" Must bear such age, I think, as thou. — 


And open bounty of her race, 






Hear ye, my mates ; I go to call 


She bid her slender purse be shared 






The Captain of our watch to hall : 


Among the soldiers of the guard. 






There lies my halberd on the floor ■, 


The rest with thanks their guerdon took; 






And he that steps my halberd o'er, 


But Brent, with shy and awkward look, 






To do the maid injurious part. 


On the reluctant maiden's hold 






My shaft shall quiver in his heart ! — 


Forced bluntly back the proffer'd gold ;— 






Beware loose speech, or jesting rough : — 


" Forgive a haughty English heart, 






Ye all know John de Brent. Enough." 


And forget its ruder part J 






IX. 


The vacant purse shall be my share, 






Their Captain came, a gallant young, — 


Which in my barret-cap I'll bear. 






, n (Of Tullibardine's house he sprung,) 


Perchance, in jeopardy of war. 






Nor wore he yet the spurs of knight ; 


Where gayer crests may keep afar." 






Gay was his mien, his humor light. 


With thanks— 'twas all she could— the 






And, though by courtesy controU'd, 


maid 






Forward his speech, his bearing Ixild. 


His rugged courtesy repaid- 






S^H ' 




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^54 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



When Ellen lorth with Lewis went, 
Allan made suit to John of Brent : — 
" My lady safe, O let your grace 
Give me to see my master's face ! 
His minstrel I, — to share his doom 
Bound from the cradle to the tomb. 
Tenth in descent, since first my sires 
Waked for his noble house their lyres, 
Nor one of all the race was known 
But prized its weal above their own. 
With the Chief's birth begins our care ; 
Our harp must soothe the infant heir. 
Teach the youth tales of fight, and grace 
His earliest feat of field or chase ; 
In peace, in war, our rank we keep, 
We cheer hij board, we soothe his sleep. 
Nor leave him till we pour our verse — 
A doleful tribute! — o'er his hearse. 
Then let mc share his captive lot ; 
It is my right — deny it not ! " — 
" Little we reck,'' said John of Brent, 
" We Southern men of long descent ; 
Nor wot we how a name — a word — 
Makes clansmen vassals to n lord : 
Yet kind my noble landlord's part, — 
God bless the house of Beaudesert ! 
And, but I loved to drive the deer, 
More than to guide the laboring steer, 
I had not dwelt an outcast here. 
Come, good old Minstrel, follow me ; 
Thy Lord and Chieftain shalt thou see." 



Then, from a rusted iron hook, 

A bunch of ponderous keys he took, 

Lighted a torch, and Allan led 

Through grated arch and passage dread. 

Portals they pass'd, where, deep within, 

Spoke prisoner's moan, and fetters' din ; 

Through rugged vaults, where, loosely 

stored. 
Lay wheel, ana axe, and headsman's 

sword. 
And many an hideous engine grim, 
For wrenching joint, and crushing limb. 
By artist form'd, who deem'd it shame 
And sin to give their work a name. 
They halted at a low-brow'd porch, 
And Brent to Alian gave tiie torch, 
While bolt and chain he backward roU'd, 
And made tlie bar unhasp its hold. 
They enter'd : — 'twas a prison-room 
Of stern security and gloom, 
Vet not a dungeon ; for the day 
Through lofty gratings found its way, 



A nd rude and antique garniture 

Deck'd the sad walls and oaken floor : 

Such as the rugged days of old 

Deem'd fit for captive noble's hold. 

" Here," said De Brent, " thou mayst re- 
main 

Till the Leech visit him again. 

Strict is his charge, the warders tell, 

To tend the noble prisoner well." 

Retiring then, the bolt he drew, 

And the lock's murmurs growl'd anew. 

Roused at the sound, from lowly bed 

A captive feebly raised his head ; 

The wondering Minstrel look'd, an ! 
knew — 

Not his dear lord, but Roderick Dhu .' 

For, come from where Clan-Alpine fought, 

They, erring, deem'd the Chief he sought. 

XIII. 

As the tall ship, whose lofty prore 

Shall never stem the billows more, 

Deserted by her gallant band, 

Amid the breakers lies astrand, — 

So, on his couch, lay Roderick Dhu ! 

And oft his fever' d limbs he threw 

In toss abrupt, as when her sides 

Lie rocking in the advancing tides, 

That shake her frame with ceaseless be.:it> 

Yet cannot heave her from her seat ; — 

O ! how unlike her course at sea ! 

Or his free step on hill and lea ! — 

Soon as the Minstrel he could scan, 

" What of thy lady ? — of my clan .? — 

My mother? — Douglas i" — tell me all ! 

Have they been ruin'd in my fall.? 

Ah, yes ! or wherefore art thou here ? 

Yet speak, — speak boldly, — do not fear." — 

(For Allan, who his mood well know. 

Was choked with grief and terror too.)— 

"Who fought — who fled.' — Old man, be 

brief ; — 
Some might — for they had lost their Chief 
Who basely live ? — who bravely died '>."-■ 
" O calm thee, Chief !" the Minstrel cried, 
'• Ellen is safe 1 " — " For that, thank 

Heaven 1 ' — 
" And hopes are for the Douglas given ;- 
The Lady Margaret, too, is well ; 
And, for thy clan, — on field or fell, 
Has never harp of minstrel toid. 
Of combat fought so true and bold. 
Thy stately Pine is yet unbent, 
Though many a goodly bough is rent." 

XIV. 

The Chieftain rear'd his form on high, 
And fever's fire was in his eye; 






' So, oh Ms couch, lay Roderick Dim! 
And oft his fever'd limbs he threw." — Page 154. 




THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



But ghastly, pale, and livid streaks 
Checker'd his swarthy brow and cheeks. 
— " Hark, Minstrel ! I have heard thee 

play, 
With measure bold, on festal day, 
In yon lone isle, . . . again where ne'er 
Shall harper play, or warrior hear 1 . . . 
That stirring air that peals on high, 
O'er Dermid's race our victory. — 
Strike it ! 5° — and then, (for well thou 

canst,) 
Free from thy minstrel-spirit glanced, 
Fling me the picture of the fight, 
When met my clan the Saxon might. 
I'll listen, till my fancy hears 
The clang of swords, the crash of spears ! 
These grates, these walls, shall vanish then, 
For the fair field of fighting men, 
And my free spirit burst away, 
As if it soar'd from battle fray." 
The trembling Bard with awe obey'd, — 
Slow on the harp his hand lie laid ; 
But soon remembrance of the sight 
He witness'd from the mountain's height. 
With what old Bertram told at nigiit, 
Awaken'd the full power of song, 
And bore him in career along ; — 
As shallop launch'd on river's tide, 
That slow and fearful leaves the side. 
But, when it feels the middle stream. 
Drives downward swift as lightning's beam. 



BATTLE OF BEAL' AN DUINE.5' 

" The Minstrel came once more to view 
The eastern ridge of Benvenue, 
For, ere he parted, he would say 
Farewell to lovely Loch Achray — 
Where shall he find, in foreign land. 
So lone a lake, so sweet a strand ! 
There is no breeze upon the fern. 

Nor ripple on the lake. 
Upon her eyry nods the erne, 

The deer has sought the brake; 
The small birds will not sing aloud, 

The springing trout lies still. 
So darkly glooms yon thunder cloud, 
That swathes, as with a purple shroud, 

Benledi's distant hill. 
Is it the thunder's solemn sound 
That mutters deep and dread, 
Or echoes from the groaning ground 
The warrior's measured tread ? 




Is it the ligntning's quivering glance 
That on the thicket streams, 

Ox do they flash on spear and lance 
The sun's retiring beams '>. 
— I see the dagger-crest of Mar, 
I see the Moray's silver star. 
Wave o'er the cloud of Saxon war. 
That up the lake comes winding far 1 
To hero boune for battle-strife, 

Or bard of martial lay, 
'Twere worth ten years of peaceful life, 

One glance at their array 1 



" Their light-arm'd archers far and near 

Survey'd tlie tangled ground, 
Their centre ranks, with pike and spear, 

A twilight forest frown'd, 
Their barded horsemen, in the rear, 

The stern battalia crown'd. 
No cymbal clash'd, no clarion rang, 

Still were the pipe and drum ; 
Save heavy tread, and armor's clang, 

The sullen march was dumb. 
There breathed no wind their crests to 
shake, 
Or wave their flags nbroad ; 
Scarce the frail aspen seem'd to quake, 

That shadow'd o'er their road. 
Their vaward scouts no tidings bring. 

Can rouse no lurking foe, 
Nor spy a trace of living thing, 

Save when they stirr'd the roe ; 
The host moves like a deep-sea wave. 
Where rise no rocks its pride to brave, 
High-swelling, dark, and slow. 
The lake is pass'd, and now they gain 
A narrow and a broken plain. 
Before the Trcsach's rugged jaws ; 
And here the horse and spearmen pause, 
While to explore the dangerous glen, 
Dive through the pass the archer-mer 



" At once there rose so wild a yell 
Within that dark and narrow dell, 
As all the fiends, from heaven that fell. 
Had peal'd the banner-cry of hell ! 
Forth from the pass in tumult driven. 
Like chaff before the wind of heaven, 

The archery appear, 
For life ! for life 1 their flight they ply- 
And shriek, and shout, and battle-cry, 
And plaids and bonnets waving high. 
And Ijroadswords flashing to the sky, 
Are maddening in the rear. 







156 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Onward they drive, in dreadful race, 

Pursuers and pursued ; 
Before that tide of fiight and chase, 
How shall it keep its rooted place, 

The spearmen's twilight wood ? — 
' Down, down,' cried Mar, ' your lances 
down ! 

Bear back both friend and foe ! ' — 
Like reeds before the tempest's frown, 
That serried grove of lances brown 

At once lay levelTd low ; 
And closely shouldering side to side, 
The bristling ranks the onset bide. — 
' We'll quell the savage mountaineer, 

As their Tinchel * cows the game ! 
They come as fleet as forest deer, 

We'll drive them back as tame.' — 

XVIII. 

" Bearing before them, in their course. 
The relics of the archer force. 
Like wave with crest of sparkling foam, 
Right onward did Clan-Alpine come. 
Above the tide, each broadsword bright 
Was brandishing like beam of light, 

Each targe was dark below ; 
And with the ocean's mighty swing, 
When heaving to the tempest's wing. 
They hurl'cl them on the foe. 
I heard the lance's shivering crash. 
As when the whirlwind rends the ash, 
I heard the broadsword's deadly clang, 
As if an hundred anvils rang ! 

But Moray wheel'd his rearward rank 
Of horsemen on Clan-Alpine's flank, 

— ' My banner-man, advance ! 
I see,' he cried, ' their column shake. — 
Now, gallants ! for your ladies' sake 

Upon them with the lance! ' — 
The horsemen dash'd among the rout, 

As deer break through the broom ; 
Their steeds are stout, their swords are 
out. 
They soon make lightsome room. 
Clan-Alpine's best are backward borne — 

Where, where was Roderick then! 
One blast upon his bugle-horn 

Were worth a thousand men! 
And refluent through the pass of fear 

The battle's tide was pour'd ; 
Vanish'd the Saxon's struggling spear, 
Vanish'd the mountain-sword. 

* A circle of sportsmen, who, by surrounding 
a greal space, and gradually narrowing, brought 
immense quantities of deer together, which 
!;sualty made desperate efforts to breakthrough 
the Tinchel- 



As Bracklinn's chasm, so black and steep. 

Receives her roaring linn. 
As the dark caverns of the deep 
Suck the wild whirlpool in. 
So did the deep and darksome pass 
Devour tlie battle's mingled mass : 
None linger now upon the plain, 
Save those who ne'er shall fight again. 



" Now westward rolls the battle's din. 
That deep and doubling pass within, 
— Minstrel, away, tlie work of fate 
Is bearing on : its issue wait. 
Where the rude Trosach's dread defile 
Opens on Katrine's lake and isle. — 
Gray Benvenue I soon repass'd, 
Loch Katrine lay beneat'n me cast. 

The sun is set ; — the clouds are met. 
The lowering scowl of heaven 

An inky view of vivid blue 
To the deep lake has given ; 
Strange gusts of wind from mountain-glen 
-Swept o'er the lake, then sunk agen. 
I heeded not the eddying surge, 
Mine eye but saw the Trosach's gorge, 
Mine ear but heard the sullen sound, 
Which like an earthquake shook the 

ground, 
And spoke the stern and desperate strife 
That parts not but with parting life. 
Seeming, to minstrel ear, fo toll 
The dirge of many a passing soul. 
Nearer it comes — the dim-wood glen 
The martial flood disgorged agcn. 

But not in mingled tide ; 
The plaided warriors of the North 
High on the mountain thunder forth 

And overhang its side ; 
While by tlie lake below appears 
The dark'ning cloud of Saxon spears. 
.\t weary bay each shatter'd band. 
Eyeing their foemen, sternly stand ; 
Their banners stream like tatter'd sail, 
That flings its fragments to the gale. 
And broken arms and disarray 
Mark'd the fell havoc of the day 



" Viewing the mountain's ridge askance, 
The Saxon stood in sullen trance, 
Till Moray pointed with his lance. 

And cried — ' Behold yon isle ! — 
.See! none are left to guard its strand. 
But women weak, that wring the hand : 
'Tis there of yore the robber band 

Their booty wont to pile ; 




•J-^- 






THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



'-51 



My purse, with bonnet pieces store. 
To Iiim will swim a bow-shot o'er, 
And loose a shallop from the shore. 
Lightly we'll tame the war-wolf then, 
Lords of his mate, and brood and den.' 
Forth from tl-.e ranks a spearman sprung. 
On earth his casque and corslet rung. 

He plunged him in the wave : — 
All saw the deed — the purpose knew. 
And to their clamors Benvenue 

A mingled echo gave ; 
The Saxons shout, their mate to cheer, 
The helpless females scream for fear, 
And yells for rage the mountaineer. 
'Twas then, as by the outcry riven, 
i'our'd down at once the lowering heaven ; 
A whirlwind swept Loch Katrine's breast, 
Her billows rear'd their snowy crest. 
Well for the swimmer swell'd they high, 
To mar the Highland marksman's eye; 
For round him shower'd, 'mid rain and 

hail, 
The vengeful arrows of the Gael. — 
In vain — He nears the isle — and lo! 
His hand is on a shallop's bow. 
— Just then a flash of lightning came. 
It tinged the waves and strand with 

flame ! — 
I mark'd Duncraggan's widow'd dame, 
Behind an oak I saw her stand, 
A naked dirk gleam'd in her hand : 
It darken'd, — but amid the moan 
Of waves, I heard a dying groan ; 
Another flash ! — the spearman floats 
A weltering corse beside the boats, 
And the stern matron o'er him stood. 
Her hand and dagger streaming blood. 



" ' Revenge! revenge! ' the Saxons cried, 

The Gaels' exulting shout replied. 

Despite the elemental rage. 

Again they hurried to engage ; 

But, ere they closed in desperate fight. 

Bloody with spurring came a knight, 

Sprung from his horse, and, from a crag. 

Waved 'twixt the hosts a milk-white flag. 

Clarion and trumpet by his side 

Rung forth a truce-note high and wide, 

While, in the Monarch's name, afar 

An herald's voice forbade the war. 

For Bothwell's lord, and Roderick bold. 

Were both, he said, in captive hold." 

— But here the lay made sudden stand ! — 

The harp escaped the Minstrel's hand ! — 

Oft had he stolen a glance, to spy 

Hov/ Roderick brook'd his minstrelsy • 



At first, the Chieftain, to the chime, 
With lifted hand kept feeble tinje ; 
That motion ceased, — yet feeling strong. 
Varied his look as changed the song ; 
At length, no more his deafen'd ear 
The minstrel melody can hear; 
His face grows sharp, — his hands are 

clench'd. 
As if some pang his heart-strings wrench'd 
Set are his teeth, his fading eye 
Is sternly fix'd on vacancy ; 
Thus motionless, and moanless, drew 
His parting breath, stout Roderick Dhu ! — 
Old Allan-Bane look'd on aghast, 
Wliile grim and still his spirit pass'd; 
But when he saw that life was fled. 
He pour'd his wailing o'er the dead. 
XXII. 
LAMENT, 

" And art thou cold and lowly laid. 
Thy foeman's dread, thy people's aid, 
Breadalbane's boast, Clan-Alpine's shade I 
For thee shall none a requiem say ? 
— For thee, — who loved the minstrel's lay, 
For thee, of Bothwell's house the stay, 
The shelter of her exiled line, 
E'en in this prison-house of tliine, 
I'll wail for Alpine's honor'd Pine ! 
" What groans shall yonder valleys fill ! 
What shrieks of grief shall rend yon hill I 
What tears of burning rage shall thrill. 
When mourns thy tribe thy battles done, 
Thy fall before the race was won, 
The sword ungirt ere set of sun ! 
There breathes not clansman of thy line. 
But would have given his life for thine. — 
woe for Alpine's honor'd Pine! — 
" Sad was thy lot on mortal stage ! — 
The captive thrush may brook the cage, 
The prison'd eagle dies for rage. 
Brave spirit, do not scorn my strain ! 
And, when its notes awake again, 
Even she, so long beloved in vain. 
Shall with my harp her voice combine, 
And mix her woe and tears with mine, 
To wail Clan-Alpine's honor'd Pine." 

XXIII. 

Ellen, the while, with bursting heart, 
Remain'd in lordly bower apart. 
Where play'd with many-color'd gleams, 
Through storied pane the rising beams 
In vain on gilded roof they fall. 
And lighten'd up a tapestried wall. 
And for her use a menial train 
A rich collation spread in vain. 






'iS^ 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The banquet proud, the chamber gay, 
Scarce drew one curious glance astray ; 
Or, if she look'd, 'twas but to say, 
With better omen dawn'd the day 
In that lone isle, where waved on high 
The dun-deer's hide for canopy ; 
Where oft her noble father shared 
The simple meal her care prepared, 
While Lufra, crouching by her side, 
Her station claim'd with jealous pride. 
And Douglas, bent on woodland game, 
Spoke of the chase to Malcolm Graeme, 
Whose answer, oft at random made, 
The wandering of his thoughts betray'd. — 
Those who such simple joys have known, 
Are taught to prize them when they're 

gone. 
But sudden, see, she lifts her head ! 
The window seeks with cautious tread. 
What distant music has the power 
To win her in this woeful hour! 
'Twas from a turret that o'erhung 
Her latticed bower, the strain was sung 



LAY OF THE IMPRISONED HUNTSMAN. 

" My hawk is tired of perch and hood. 
My idle greyhound loathes his food, 
My horse is weary of his stall. 
And I am sick of captive thrall. 
I wish I were, as I have been. 
Hunting the hart in forest green. 
With laended bow and bloodhound free, 
For that's the life is meet for me. 
I hate to learn the ebb of time. 
From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime. 
Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl. 
Inch after inch along the wall. 
Tlie lark was wont my matins ring, 
The sable rook my vespers sing. 
These towers, although a king's they be, 
Have not a hall of joy for me. 
No more at dawning morn I rise. 
And sun myself in Ellen's eyes. 
Drive the fleet deer the forest through. 
And homeward wend with evening dew ; 
A blithesome welcome blithely meet. 
And lay my trophies at her feet, 
While fled the eve on wing of glee, — 
That life is lost to love and me ! " 



The heart-sick lay was hardly said. 

The list'ner had not turn'd her head. 

It trickled still, the starting tear. 

When light a footstep struck her ear, 

And Snowdoun's graceful knight was near. 



She turn'd the hastier, lest again 

The prisoner should renew his strain. — 

" O welcome, brave Fitz-James ! '' she said 

" How may an almost orphan maid 

Pay the deep debt " — " O say not so I 

To me no gratitude you owe. 

Not mine, alas ! the boon to give, 

And bid thy noble father live ; 

I can but be thy guide, sweet maid, 

With Scotland's king thy suit to aid. 

No tyrant he, though ire and pride 

May lay Iiis better mood aside. 

Come, Ellen, come ! 'tis more than time, 

He holds his court at morning prime." 

With beating heart, and bosom wrung, 

As to a brother's arm she clung. 

Gently he dried the falling tear, 

.And gently whisper"d hope and cheer; 

Her faltering steps half led, half staid, 

Through gallery fair, and high arcade, 

Till, at his touch, its wings of pride 

A portal arch unfolded wide. 

.XXVI. 

Within 'twas brilliant all and light, 
A thronging scene of figures bright ; 
It glow'd on Ellen's dazzled sight, 
As when the setting sun has given 
Ten thousand hues to summer even, 
And from their tissue, fancy frames 
Aerial knights and fairy dames. 
Still by Fitz-James her footing staid ; 
A few faint steps she forward made. 
Then slow her drooping head she raised, 
And fearful round the presence gazed 
For him she sought, who own'd this state, 
The dreaded prince whose will was fate. 
She gazed on many a princely port. 
Might well have ruled a royal court ; 
On many a splendid garb she gazed, 
Then turn'd bewikler'd and amazed. 
For all stood bare ; and, in the room, 
Fitz-yames alone wore capard plume. 
To hfm each lady's look was lent ; 
On Iiim each courtier's eye was bent ; 
Midst furs and silks, and jewels sheen, 
He stood, in simple Lincoln green, 
The centre of the glittering ring, — 
And Snowdoun's Knight is Scotland's 
King.S2 

XXVII. 

As wreath of snow, on mountain-breast. 

Slides from the rock that gave it rest, 

Poor Ellen glided from her stay, 

And at the Monarch's feet she lay ; 

No word her choking voice commands,— 

She show'd the ring, she clasp'd her hands 






THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



159 



O ! not a njoment could he brook. 

The generous prince, that supphant look ! 

Gently he raised her; and, the while, 

Check'd witli a glance the circle's smile ; 

Graceful, but grave, her brow he kiss'd, 

And bade her terrors be dismiss'd : — 

"' Yes, Fair : the wandering poor Fitz- 

James 
Tiie fealty of Scotland claims. 
To him thy woes, thy wishes, bring ; 
He will redeem his signet-ring. 
Ask nought for Douglas ■. yester even, 
His prince and he have much forgiven. 
Wrong hath he had from slanderous 

tongue, 
I, from his rebel kinsmen, wrong. 
We would not, to the vulgar crowd, 
Yield what they craved with clamor loud j 
Calmly we heard and judged his cause, 
Our council aided, and our laws. 
I stanch' d thy father's death-feud stern 
With stout De Vaux and Grey Glencaim •, 
And Bothwell's Lord henceforth we own 
The friend and bulwark of our Throne. 
But, lovely infidel, how now ? 
What clouds thy misbelieving brow ? 
Lord James of Douglas, lend thine aid ; 
Thou must confirm this doubting maid.'' 



Then forth the noble Douglas sprung, 
And on his neck his daugliter hung. 
The Monarch drank, that happy hour. 
The sweetest, holiest, draught of Power, — 
When it can say, with godlike voice. 
Arise, sad V'irtue, and rejoice ! 
Yet would not James the general eye 
On Nature's laptures long should pry , 
He stepp'd between — " Nay, Douglas, 

nay. 
Steal not my proselyte away ! 
The riddle 'tis my right to read, 
That brought this happy chance to speed. 
Yes, Ellen, when disguised I stray 
In life's more low but happier way, 
'Tis under name which veils my power, 
Nor falsely veils — for Stirling's tower 
Of yore the name of Snowdoun claims,^^ 
And Normans call me James Fitz-James. 
Thus watch I o'er insulted laws. 
Thus learn to right the injured cause." — 
Then, in a tone apart and low, — 
" Ah, little traitress ! none must know 
What idle dream, what ligliter thought, 
What vanity full dearly bought, 
Join'd to thine eye's dark witchcraft, drew 
My spell-bound steps to Beuvenue, 



In dangerous hoiu', and all but gave 
Thy Monarch s life to mountain glaive ! " 
Aloud he spoke — " Thuu still dost hold 
That lit Je talisman of gold. 
Pledge of my faith, Fitz-James's ring — 
What seeks fair Ellen of the King 1 " 



Full well the conscious maiden guess'd 
He probed the weakness of her breast ; 
But, with tliat consciousness, there came 
A lightening of her fears for Graeme, 
And more she deem'd the Monarch's ire 
Kindled 'gainst him, who, for her sire, 
Rebellioivs broadsviford boldly drew ; 
And, to her generous feeling true, 
She craved the grace of Roderick Dhu. 
'■ Forbear thy suit : — the King of Kings 
Alone can stay life's parting wings, 
I know his heart, I know his hand. 
Have shared his cheer, and proved liis 

brand : — 
My fairest earldom would I give 
To bid Clan-Alpine's Chieftain live ! 
Hast thou no other boon to crave .'' 
No other captive friend to save ? " 
Blushing, she turn'd her from the King, 
And to the Douglas gave the ring. 
As if she wish'd her sire to speak 
The suit that stain'd her glowing cheek. — 
" Nay, then, my pledge has lost its force. 
And stubborn justice holds her course. — 
Malcolm, come forth ! " — And, at the word, 
Down kneel'd the Graeme to Scotland's 

Lord. 
" For thee, rash youth, no suppliant sues, 
From thee may Vengeance claim her duos, 
Who, nurtured underneath our smile. 
Hast paid our care by treacherous wile^ 
And sought amid thy faithful clan, 
A refuge for an outlaw'd man, 
Dishonoring thus thy loyal name. — 
Fetters and warder for the Graeme ! ' 
His chain of gold the King unstrung. 
The links o'er Malcolm's neck he flung, 
Then gently drew the glittering band, 
And laid the clasp on Ellen's hand. 



Harp of the North, farewell ! The hills 
grow dark. 
On purple peaks a deeper shade descend- 
ing ; 
In twilight copse the glow-worm lights het 
spark, 
The deer, half-seen, are to the covert 
wending. 




i6o 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Resume thy wizard elm ! tlie fountain lend- 
ing, 
And the wild breeze, thy wilder min- 
strelsy ; 
Thy numbers sweet with nature's vespers 
blending, 
With distant echo from the fold and leu, 
And herd-boy's evening pipe, and hum of 
housing bee. 

Yet, once again, farewell, thou Minstrel 
harp ! 
Yet, once again, forgive my feeble sway, 
And little reck I of the censure sharp 

May idly cavil at an idle lay. 
Much have 1 owed thy strains on life's long 
way, 
Through secret woes the world has never 
known. 
When on the weary night dawn'd wearier 
day, 



And bitterer was the grief devour'd 
alone. 
That I o'erlive such woes, Enchantress ! is 
thine owii. 

Hark ! as my lingering footsteps slow retire, 
.Some Spirit of the Air has waked thy 
string ! 
'Tis now a seraph bold, with touch ot 
fire, 
'Tis now the brush of Fairy's frolic wing 
Receding novv, the dying numbers ring 
Fainter and :/ainter down the rugged 
dell, 
And now the mountain breezes scarcely 
bring 
A wandering witch-note of the distant 
spell — 
And now, 'tis silent all ! — Enchantress, fare 
thee well ! 



/^ 



uv 



THE 



VISION OF DON RODERICK. 



JOHN WHIT MORE, ESQ. 

AND TO THE COMMITTEE OF SUBSCRIBERS FOR RELIEF OF THE PORTUGUESK 
SUFFERERS IN WHICH HE PRESIDES, 

THIS POEM, 

(THIS VISION OF DON RODERICK,) 

COMPOSED FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE FUND UNDER THEIR MANAGEMENT, IS 
RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED BY 

WALTER SCOTT. 



Prtfa: 



f. 



T/ie following Poem is foujided upon a Spanish Tradition, particularly detailed in the 
Notes; bid bearing, in general, thai Don Roderick, the last Gothic King o/ Spain, when the 
Invasion of the Moors was impending, had the temerity to descend into an ancient vault near 
Toledo, the openifig of which had been denounced as fatal to the Spanish Monarchy. T/ie 
legend adds, thai his rash curiosity was viortified by an entbletnatical representation of 
those Saracens who in the year 714, defeated him z'« battle, and reduced Spain under tlieir 
dominion. I have presumed to prolong t/ie Vision of th^ Revolutions of Spain down to the 
present eventful crisis of the Peninsula ; and to divide it, by a supposed change of scene., into 
Three Periods. The First of these represents tlie hivasion of the Moors, the Defeat and 
Death of Roderick, and closes with the peaceful occupation of the country by the Victors. Th<: 
Second Period embraces the state of the Peninsidn, when the conquests of the Spaniards and 
Portuguese in the East and West Indies had raised to the highest pitch the renown of their 
arms ; sullied, however, by superstition and cruelty. A n allusion to the inhumanities of the 
Inquisition termittates this picture. The Last Part of the Poem opens with the state of 
Spain previous to the unparalleled treacJiery <?/ Buonaparte ; gives a sketch oj the usurpation 
attempted upon that unsuspicious and friendly kingdom, and terminates with the arrival of 
the British succors. It may be farther proper to mention, that t/ie object of the Poem is less 
to commemorate or detail particular incidents, than to exhibit a general and impressive 
picture of the several periods brought upon the stage. 
Edinburgh, 7««i? 24> iSn. 



JTC 



~¥ 



THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 



Quid dignum memorare tuis, Hispania, tenis. 
Vox humana valet! — Claudian. 



INTRODUCTION. 

I. 

Lives there a strain, whose sounds of 
mounting fire 
May rise distinguish'd o'er the din of 
war ; 
Or died it with yon Master of the Lyre, 
Who sung beieaguer'd IHon's evil star ? 
Such, Wellington, might reach thee 
from afar. 
Wafting its descant wide o'er Ocean's 
range ; 
Nor shouts, nor clashing arms, its mood 
could mar. 
All as it swell'd 'twixt each loud 
trumpet-change, 
That clangs to Britain victory, to Portugal 
revenge ! 

II. 
Yes 1 such a strain, with all o'er-pouring 
measure, 
Might melodize with each tumultuous 
sound. 
Each voice of fear or triumph, woe or 
pleasure, 
That rings Mondego's ravaged shores 
around ; 
The thundering cry of hosts with con- 
quest crown'd, 
The female shnek, the ruin'd peasant's 
moan, 
The shout of captives from their chains 
unbound. 
The foil'd oppressor's deep and sullen 
groan. 
Nation's choral hymn for tyranny o'er- 
thrown. 



But we, weak minstrels of a laggard day, 

Skill'd but to imitate an elder page. 
Timid and raptureless, can we repay 
The debt thou claim'st in this ex- 
hausted age ? 
Thou givest our lyres a theme, that 
might engage 
(162) 



Those that couLl send thy name o'er 
sea and land, 
While sea and land shall last ; for Ho« 
mer's rage 
A theme ; a theme for Milton's mighty 
hand- 
How much unmeet for us, a faint degen- 
erate band ! 

IV. 

Ye mountains stern ! within whose rug- 
ged breast 
The friends of Scottish freedom found 
repose ; 
Ye torrents ! whose hoarse sounds have 
soothed their rest. 
Returning trom the field of vanquish'd 
foes ; 
Say have ye lost each wild majestic close, 
That erst the choir of Bards or Druids 
flung ; 
What time their hymn of victory arose, 
And Cattraeth's glens with voice of ' 
triumph rung, 
And mystic Merlin harp'd, and gray-hair'd 
Llywarch sung ! ' 

V. 

! if your wilds such minstrelsy retain, 
As sure your changeful gales seem oft 
to say 
When sweeping wild and sinking soft 
again. 
Like trumpet-jubilee, or harp's wild 
sway ; 
If ye can echo such triumphant lay, 

Then lend the note to him has loved 
you long ! 
Who pious gathered each tradition gray. 
That floats your solitary wastes along, 
And with affection vain gave them new 
voice in song. 

VI. 

For not till now, how oft soe'er the task 
Of truant verse hath lighten'd graver 
care, 

From Muse or Sylvan was he wont to ask, 
In phrase poetic, inspiration fair ; 



THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 



163 



Careless he gave his numbers to the air, 
They came unsought for, if applauses 
came ; 
Nor for himself prefers he now the prayer ; 
Let but his verse befit a hero'sfame. 
Immortal be the verse I — forgot the poet's 
name. 

VII. 

Hark, from yon misty cairn their answer 
tost : 
" Minstrel ! the fame of whose ro- 
mantic lyre, 
Capricious-swelling now, may soon be 
lost, 
Like the light flickering of a cottage 
fire; 
If to such task presumptuous thou aspire, 
Seek not from us the meed to warrior 
due : 
Age after age has gather'd son to sire. 
Since our gray cliffs the din of conflict 
knew, 
Or, pealing through our vales, victorious 
bugles blew. 

VIII. 

" Decay'd our old traditionary lore. 

Save where the lingering fays renew 
their ring. 
By milk-maid seen beneath the hawthorn 
hoar, 
Or round the marge of Minchmore's 
haunted spring : - 
Save where their legends gray-hair'd shep- 
herds sing. 
That now scarce win a listening ear but 
thine, 
Of feuds obscure, and Border ravaging, 
And rugged deeds recount in rugged 
line. 
Of moonlight foray made on Teviot, Tweed, 
or Tyne. 

IX. 

Nol search romantic lands, where the 

near Sun 
Gives with unstinted boon ethereal 
flame. 
Where the rude villager, his labor done, 
In verse spontaneous ^ chants some 
favor' d name. 
Whether Olalia's charms his tribute 
claim. 
Her eye of diamond, and her locks of 
jet; 
Or whether, kindling at the deeds of 
Graeme,'* 



He sing, to wild Morisco measure set, 
Old Albin's red claymore, green Erin's bay- 
onet I 



" Explore those regions, where the flinty 
crest 
Of wild Nevada ever gleams with 
snows, 
Where in the proud Alhambra's ruin'd 
breast 
Barbaric monuments of pomp repose; 
Or where the banners of more ruthless 
foes 
Than the fierce Moor, float o'er To- 
ledo's fane. 
From whose tall towers even now the 
patriot throws 
An anxious glance, to spy upon the 
plain 
The blended ranks of England, Portugal, 
and Spain. 

XI. 

" There, of Numantian fire a swarthy 
spark 
Still lightens in the sun-burnt native's 
eye ; 
The stately port, slow step, and visage 
dark. 
Still mark enduring pride and corv 
stancy. 
And, if the glow of feudal chivalry 

Beam not, as once, thy nobles' dearest 
pride, 
Iberia ! oft thy crestless peasantry 

Have seen the plumed Hidalgo quit 
their side. 
Have seen, yet dauntless stood — 'gainst for- 
tune fought and died. 



" And cherish'd still by that unchanging 
race. 
Are themes for minstrelsy more high 
than thine ; 
Of strange tradition many a mystic trace, 
Legend and vision, prophecy and sign; 
Where wonders wild of Arabesque com- 
bine 
With Gothic imagery of darker shade, 
Forming a model meet for minstrel line. 
Go, seek such theme!" — The Mount- 
ain .Spirit said : 
With filial awe I heard — I heard, and J 
obey'd. 



^ 




^ 



164 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Rearing their crests amid the cloudless 
skies. 
And darkly clustering in the pale 
moonlight. 
Toledo's holy towers and spires arise, 
As from a trembling lake of silver 
white. 
Their mmgled shadows intercept the 
sight 
Of the broad burial-ground out-stretch'd 
below, 
And nought disturbs the silence of the 
night ; 
All sleeps in sullen shade, or silver 
glow, 
All save the heavy swell of Teio's ceaseless 
flow. 



All save the rushing swell of Teio's tide. 
Or, distant heard, a courser's neigh or 
tramp ; 
Their changing rounds as watchful horse- 
men ride, 
To guard the limits of King Roderick's 
camp. 
For, through the river's night-fog rolling 
damp, 
Was many a proud pavilion dimly seen. 
Which glimmer'd back against the moon's 
fair lamp. 
Tissues of silk and silver twiste(^ sheen, 
And standards proudly pitch'd, and warders 
arm'd between. 



But of their Monarch's person keeping 
ward, 
Since last the deep-mouth'd bell of 
vespers toll'd. 
The chosen soldiers of the royal guard 
The post beneath the proud Cathedral 
hold; 
A band unlike their Gothic sires of old. 
Who, for the cap of steel and iron 
mace, 
Bear slender darts, and casques bedeck'd 
with gold. 
While silver-studded belts their shoul- 
ders grace, 
Where ivory quivers ring in the broad fal- 
chion's place. 

IV. 

In the light language of an idle court. 
They mui'mur'd at their master's long 
delay, 



And held his lengthen'd orisons in 
sport : — 
" What ! will Don Roderick here till 
morning stay, 
To wear in shrift and prayer the night 
away ? 
And are his hours in such dull penance 
past, 
For fair Fiorinda's plunder' d charms to 
pay ? " 5 — 
Then to the east their weary eyes they 
cast. 
And wish'd the lingering dawn would glim- 
mer forth at last. 



But, far within, Toledo's Prelate lent 

An ear of fearful wonder to the King ; 
The silver lamp a fitful lustre sent, 

So long that sad confession witnessing : 
For Roderick told of many a hidden 
thing. 
Such as are lothly utter'd to the air. 
When Fear, Remorse, and Shame the 
bosom wring. 
And Guilt his secret burden cannot 
bear, 
And Conscience seeks in speech a respite 
from Despair. 

VI. 

Full on the Prelate's face, and silver hair, 
The stream of failing light was feebly 
roll'd : 
But Roderick's visage, though his head 
was bare, 
Was shadow'd by his hand and man- 
tle's fold. 
While of his hidden soul the sins he told, 
Proud Alaric's descendant could not 

brook. 
That mortal man his bearing should be- 
hold. 
Or boast that he had seen, when Con- 
science shook, 
Fear tame a monarch's brow, Remorse a 
warrior's look. 



The old man's faded cheek wax'd yet 
more pale. 
As many a secret sad the King be- 
wray'd ; 
As sign and glance eked out the unfin- 
ish'd tale, 
When in the midst his faltering whisper 
staid.- 




THE VISION' OF DON RODERICK. 



165 



•' Thus royal Witiza * was slain," — he 
said ; 
" Vet, lioly Father, deem not it was I." 
Thus still Ambition strives her crimes to 
shade. — 
" Oh ! rather deem 'twas stern necessity ! 
Self-preservation bade, and I must kill or 
die. 



•* And if Florinda's shrieks alarm'd the 
air, 
If she invoked her absent sire in vain, 
And on her knees implored that I would 
spare. 
Yet, reverend priest, thy sentence rash 
refrain ! — 
All is not as it seems — the female train 
Know by their bearing to disguise their 
mood; " — 
But Conscience here, as if in high 
disdain. 
Sent to the Monarch's cheek the 
burning blood — 
He stay'd his speech abrupt — and up the 
Prelate stood. 



"O harden'd offspring of an iron race ! 
What of thy crimes, Don Roderick, 
shall I say? 
What alms, or prayers, or penance can 
efface 
Murder's dark spot, wash treason's 
stain away ! 
For the foul ravisher how shall I pray, 
Who, scarce repentant, makes his crime 
his boast ? 
How hope Almighty vengeance shall 
delay. 
Unless in mercy to yon Christian 
host. 
He spare the shepherd, lest the guiltless 
sheep be lost." 

X. 

Then kindled the dark Tyrant in his 
mood, 
And to his brow return'd its dauntless 
gloom ; 
" And welcome then," he cried, " be blood 
for blood. 
For treason treachery, for dishonor 
doom ! 



* Witiza was Roderick's predecessor on the 
Spanish throne. He was slain by Roderick's 
connivance. 



Yet will I know whence come tliey, or 
by whom. 
Show, for thou canst — give forth the 
fated key. 
And guide me, Priest, to that mysterious 
room. 
Where, if aught true in old tradition be, 
His nation's future fates a Spanish King 
shall see." — 

XI. 

" Ill-fated Prince ! recall the desperate 
word. 
Or pause ere yet the omen thou obey ! 
Bethink, yon spell-bound portal would 
afford 
Never to former Monarch entrance- 
way ; 
Nor shall it ever ope, old records say, 

Save to a King, the last of all his line. 
What time his empire totters to decay, 
And treason digs, beneath, her fatal 
mine, 
And, high above, impends avenging wrath 
divine." — 

XII. 

" Prelate ! a Monarch's fate brooks no 
delay ; 
Lead on ! " — The ponderous key the 
old man took, 
And held the winking lamp, and led the 
way. 
By winding stair, dark aisle, and 
secret nook, 
Then on an ancient gateway bent his 
look ; 
And, as the key the desperate King 
essay'd, 
Low mutter'd thunders the Cathedral 
shook, 
And twice he stopp'd, and twice new 
effort made. 
Till the huge bolts roll'd back, and the loud 
hinges bray'd 



Long, large, and lofty was that vaulted 
hall ; 
Roof, walls, and floor were all of marble 
stone, 
Of polished marble, black as funeral pall. 
Carved o'er with signs and characters 
unknown. 
A paly light, as of the dawning, shone 
Through the sad bounds, but whence 
they could not spy ; 
For window to the upper air was none : 




i66 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Yet, by that light, Don Roderick could 
descry 
Wonders that ne'er till then were seen by 
mortal eye. 



Grim sentmels, against the upper wall. 
Of molten bronze, two Statues held 
their place ; 
Massive their naked limbs, their stature 
tall. 
Their frowning foreheads golden cir- 
cles grace. 
Moulded they seem'd for kings of giant 
race, 
Tliat liv'd and sinn'd before the aveng- 
ing flood ; 
This grasp'd a scythe, that rested on a 
mace ; 
This spread his wings for flight, that 
pondering stood, 
Each stubborn seem'd and stern, immutable 
of mood. 



Fix'd was the right-hand Giant's brazen 
look 
Upon his brother's glass of shifting 
sand, 
As if its ebb he measured by a book. 
Whose iron volume loaded his huge 
hand ; 
In wjiich was wrote of many a fallen 
land, 
Of empires lost, and kings to exile 
driven : 
And o'er that pair their names in scroll 
expand — 
" Lo, Destiny and Time ! to whom 
by Heaven 
The guidance of the earth is for a season 
given." — 

XVI. 

Even while they read, the sand-glass 
wastes away ; 
And, as the last and lagging grains did 
creep, 
That right-hand Giant 'gan his club up- 
sway 
As one that startles from a heavy 
sleep. 
Full on the upper wall the mace's sweep 
At once descended with the force of 
thunder, 
And hurtling down at once, in crumbled 
heap. 



The marble boundary was rent asun- 
der, 
And gave to Roderick's view new sights of 
fear and wonder. 



For they might spy, beyond that mighty 
breach. 
Realms as of Spain in vision'd pros- 
pect laid. 
Castles and towers, in due proportion 
each, 
As by some skilful artist's hand por- 
tray 'd ; 
Here, crossed by many a wild Sierra's 
shade. 
And boundless plains that tire the 
traveller's eye; 
There, rich with vineyard and with olive 
glade, 
Or deep embrown'd by forests huge 
and high, 
Or wash'd by mighty streams, that slowly 
murmur'd by. 

XVIIl. 

And here, as erst upon the antique stage, 
Pass'd forth the band of masquers 
trimly led, ■ 
In various forms and various equipage, 
While fitting strains the hearer's fancy 
fed; 
So, to sad Roderick's eye in order 
spread. 
Successive pageants hll'd that mystic 
scene, 
Showing the fate of battles ere they 
bled. 
And issue of events that had not 
been ; 
And, ever and anon, strange sounds were 
heard between. 



First shrill'd an unrepeated female 
shriek ! — 
It seem'd as if Don Roderick knew the 
call, 
For the bold blood was blanching in his 
cheek. — 
Then answer'd kettle-drum and attabal, 
, Gong-peal and cymbal-clank the ear 
appal, 
The Tecbir war-cry, and the Lelie's 
yell,« 
Ring wildly dissonant along the hall, 



¥, 









/<rrl ^ 


<• 1 1 


C 1 1 


— ^^ 








/X ^ 






^ 


i -■ ■ "a 




> 


XL 






T//£ VISION OF DON RODERICK. 1 67 






Needs not to Roderick their dread ira- 


With naked cimeters mete out the 




port tell— 


land, 






"The Moor!" he cried, -'the Moor! — ring 


And for the bondsmen base the freeborn J [ 






' ^ out to the Tocsin bell ! 


natives brand. 






XX. 

" They come ! they come ! I see the 


XXIII. 






groaning lands 
White with the turbans of each Arab 


Then rose the grated Harem, to enclose 






The loveliest maidens of the Christian 






horde ; 


line ; 






Swart Zaarah joins her misbelieving 


Then, menials, to their misbelieving 






bands, 


foes, 






Alia and Mahomet their battle-word. 


Castile's young nobles held forbidden 






The choice they yield, the Koran or the 


wine ; 






Sword — 


Then, too, the holy Cross, salvation's 






See how the Christians rush to arms 


sign. 






amain !— 


By impious hands was from the altar 






In yonder shout the voice of conflict 


thrown, 






roar'd. 


And the deep aisles of the polluted 






The shadowy hosts are closing on the 


shrine 






plain — 


Echo'd, for holy hymn and organ- 






Now, God and Saint lago strike, for the 


tone. 






good cause of Spain ! 


The Santon's frantic dance, the Fakir's 
gibbering moan. 






XXI. 








"By Heaven, the Moors prevail! the 


XXIV. 






Christians yield ! 


How fares Don Roderick ? — E'en as one 






Their coward leader gives for flight 


who spies 






the sign ! 


Flames dart their glare o'er midnight's 






The sceptred craven mounts to quit the 


sable woof. 






field- 


And hears around his children's piercing 






Is not yon steed Orelio ? — Yes, 'tis 


cries. 






mine ! '' 


And sees the pale assistants stand 






But never was she turn'd from battle-line: 


Wool ; 






Lo! where the recreant spurs o'er 


While cruel Conscience brings him bitter 






stock and stone ! 


proof. 






Curses pursue the slave, and wrath di- 


His folly or his crime have caused his 






vine ! 


grief ; 






Rivers ingulf him ! " — " Hush," in shud- 


And while above him nods the crumbling 






dering tone. 


roof, 






The Prelate said ;— " rash Prince, yon vis- 


He curses earth and Heaven — himself 






ion'd form's thine own." 


in chief — 






XXII. 


Desperate of earthly aid, despairing Heaven's 
relief ! 






Just then, a torrent cross'd the flier's 








course ; 


XXV, 






The dangerous ford the Kingly Like- 


That scythe-arm'd Giant turn'd his fata 






ness tried ; 


glass, 






But the deep eddies whelm'd both man 


And twilight on the landscape closed he 






and horse. 


wings ; 






Swept like benighted peasant down the 


Far to Asturian hills the war-sounds 






tide ; 


pass. 






And the proud Moslemah spread far and 


And in their stead rebeck or timbrel 




c 


ft wide, 


rings ; r, p 






As numerous as their native locust 


And to the sound the bell-deck'd dancer 






band ; 


springs. 






Berber and Ismael's sons the spoils di- 


Bazaars resound as when their marts 






vide, 


are met. 






TN 






XPI 






^ ^ 


"H ' 


c ^-5 


vy 


\^ - 




- iy 


I. 1 J 


(. 1 i 







1 68 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



In tourney light the Moor his jerrid* 
flings, 
And on the land as evening seem'd to 
set, 
The Imaum's chant was heard from mosque 
or minaret. 

XXVI. 

So passed that pa^-'ant. Ere another 
came, 
The visionary scene was wrapp'd in 
smolve, 
Whose sulph'rous wreaths were cross'd by 
sheets of flame ; 
With every flash a bolt explosive 
broke, 
Till Roderick deem'd the fiends had burst 
their yoke, 
And wav'd 'gainst heaven the infernal 
gonfalone?t 
For War a new and dreadful language 
spoke, 
Never by ancient warrior heard or 
known ; 
Lightning and smoke her breath, and thun- 
der was her tone. 
XXVII. 

From the dim landscape roll the clouds 
away — 
The Christians have regain'd their her- 
itage; 
Before the Cross has waned the Cres- 
cent's ray 
And many a monastery decks the 
stage, 
And lofty church, and low-brow'd hermit- 
age. 
The land obeys a Hermit and a 
Knight, — 
The Genii those of Spain for many an 
age ; 
This clad in sackcloth, that in armor 
bright, 
And that was Valour named, this Big- 
otry was hight. 

XXVIII. 

Valor was harness'd like a Chief of 
old, 
Arm'd at all points, and prompt for 
knightly gest ; 
His sword was temper'd in the Ebro 
cold, 
Morena's eagle plume adorn'd his 
crest. 



* yerrid, javelin. t Goii/alone, banner. 



The spoils of Afric's lion bound his 
breast. 
Fierce he stepp'd forward and flung 
down his gage ; 
As if of mortal kind to brave the best. 
Him follow'd his Companion, dark and 
sage. 
As he, my Master, sung the dangerous 
Archimage. 

XXIX. 

Haughty of heart and brow the Warrior 
came, 
In look and language proud as proud 
might be. 
Vaunting his lordship, lineage, fights, and 
fame : 
Yet was that barefoot monk more 
proud than he : 
And as the ivy climbs the tallest tree. 
So round the loftiest soul his toils he 
wound, 
And with his spells subdued the fierce and 
free. 
Till ermined Age and Youth in arms 
renown'd. 
Honoring his scourge and hair-clnth, meekly 
kiss'd the ground. 

XXX. 

And thus it chanced that Valor, peer- 
less knight. 
Who ne'er to King or Kaiser veil'd his 
crest, 
Victorious still in bull-feast or in fight, 
Since first his limbs with mail he did 
invest, 
Stoop'd ever to that Anchoret's behest : 
Nor reason'd of the right, nor of the 
wrong, 
But at his bidding laid the lance in rest. 
And wrought fell deeds the troubled 
world along. 
For he was fierce as brave, and pitiless as 
strong. 

XXXI. 

Oft his proud galleys sought some new 
found world, 
That latest sees the sun, or first the 
morn ; 
Still at that Wizard's feet their spoils he 
hurl'd, — 
Ingots of ore from rich Potosi borne, 
Crowns by Caciques, \ aigrettes by Om- 
rahs worn. 



t Cacii;ues and Omrahs, Peruvian and 
Mexican uhiefs or nobles. 



-s 



^ 



THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 



i6q 



Wrought of rare gems, but broken, rent, 
and foul ; 
Idols of gold from heathen temples torn, 
Bedabbled all with blood. — With grisly 
scowl 
The Hermit mark'd the stains, and smiled 
beneath his cowl. 

XXXII. 

Then did he bless the offering, and bade 
make 
Tribute to Heaven of gratitude and 
praise : 
And at his word the choral hymns 
awake, 
And many a hand the silver censer 
sways. 
But with the incense-breath these censers 
raise, 
Mix steams from corpses smouldering 
in the fire ; 
The groans of prison'd victims mar the 
lays, 
And shrieks of agony confound the 
quire ; 
While 'mid the mingled sounds, the darken'd 
scenes expire. 

XXXllI. 

Preluding light, were strains of music 
heard, 
As once again revolved that measured 
sand ; 
Such sounds as when, for sylvan dance 
prepared, 
Gay Xeres summons forth her vintage 
band ; 
When for the light bolero ready stand 
The mozo blithe, with gay muchacha 
met,^ 
He conscious of his broider'd cap and 
band, 
She of her netted locks and light cor- 
sette. 
Each tiptoe perch'd to spring, and shake the 
Castanet. 

XXXIV. 

And vifell such strains the opening scene 
became ; 
For Valor had relax'd his ardent 
look. 
And at a lady's feet like lion tame. 

Lay stretch'd, full loth the weight of 
arms to brook ; 
And soften'd Bigotry, upon his book, 
Patter'd a task of little good or ill : 



But the blithe peasant plied his pruning 
hook. 
Whistled the muleteer o'er vale and 
hill. 
And rung from village-green the merry 
segiiidille. 



Gray Royalty, grown impotent of toil, 
Let the grave sceptre slip his lazy 
hold ; 
And, careless, saw his rule become the 
spoil 
Of a loose Female and her minion 
bold. 
But peace was on the cottage and the 
fold. 
From court intrigue, from bickering 
faction far ; 
Beneath the chestnut-tree Love's tale was 
told, 
And to the tinkling of the light guitar, 
Sweet stoop'd the western sun, sweet rose 
the evening star. 



As that sea-cloud, in size like human 
hand. 
When first from Carniel by the Tisl> 
bite * seen, 
Came slowly overshadowing Israel's 
land, 
A while, perchance, bedeck'd with 
colors sheen. 
While yet the sunbeams on its skirts had 
been, 
Limning with purple and with gold its 
shroud, 
Till darker folds obscured the blue 
serene. 
And blotted heaven with one broad 
sable cloud, 
Then sheeted rain burst down, and whirl- 
winds howl'd aloud : — 

XXXVII. 

Even so, upon that peaceful scene was 
pour'd. 
Like gathering clouds, full many a 
foreign band. 
And He, their Leader, wore in sheath his 
sword. 
And offer'd peaceful front and open 
hand. 



* Elijah the Prophet. See i Kings, chap> 
xviii. 



^^ 







lyo 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Veiling the perjured treachery he 
plann'd, 
By friendship's zeal and honor's spe- 
cious guise, 
Until he won the passes of the land ; 
Then burst were honor's oath and 
friendship's ties ! 
He clutch' d his vulture-grasp, and call'd fair 
Spain his prize. 

XXXVIII. 

An Iron Crown his anxious forehead 
bore ; 
And well such diadem his heart be- 
came. 
Who ne'er his purpose for remorse gave 
o'er, 
Or check'd his course for piety or 
shame ; 
Who, train'd a soldier, deem'd a soldier's 
fame 
Might flourish in the wreath of battles 
won. 
Though neither truth nor honor deck'd 
his name ; 
Who, placed by fortune on a Monarch's 
throne, 
Reck'd not of Monarch's faith, or Mercy's 
kingly tone. 

XXXIX. 

From a rude isle his ruder lineage came. 
The spark, that, from a suburb-hovel's 
hearth 
Ascending, wraps some capital in flame, 
Hath not a meaner or more sordid 
birth. 
And for the soul that bade him waste the 
earth — 
The sable land-flood from some swamp 
obscure, 
That poisons the glad husband-field with 
dearth. 
And by destruction bids its fame en- 
dure. 
Hath not a source more sullen, stagnant, 
and impure.* 

XL. 

Before that Leader strode a shadowy 

Form ; 
Her limbs like mist, her torch like 

meteor show'd, 
With which she beckon'd him through 

fight and storm, 

* In historical truth, Napoleon I.'s family 
was not plebeian. 



And all he crush'd that cross'd his des- 
perate road. 
Nor thought, nor fear'd, nor look'd on 
what he trode. 
Realms could not glut his pride, blood 
could not slake. 
So oft as e'er she shook her torch abroad — 
It was Ambition bade her terrors 
wake. 
Nor deign d she, as of yore, a milder form 
to take 

XLI. 

No longer now she spurn'd at mean re- 
venge. 
Or staid her hand for conquer'd foe- 
man's moan ; 
As when, the fates of aged Rome to 
change. 
By Caesar's she cross'd the Ru- 
bicon. 
Nor joy'd she to bestow the spoils she 
won. 
As when the banded powers of Greece 
were task'd 
To war beneath the Youth of Macedon: 
No seemly veil her modern minion 
ask'd. 
He saw her hideous face, and loved the fiend 
unmask' d. 

XLII. 

That Prelate mark'd his march — On ban- 
ners blazed 
With battles won in many a distant 
land, 
On eagle-standards and on arms he 
gazed ; * 

" And hopest thou then," he said, " thy 
power shall stand t 
O, thou hast builded on the shifting sand. 
And thou hast temper'd it with slaugh- 
ter's flood ; 
And know, fell scourge in the .-Mmighty's 
hand, 
Gore-moibten'd trees shall perish in the 
bud. 
And bv a bloody death shall die the Man of 
'Blood ! " 

XLIII. 

The ruthless Leader beckon'd from his 
train 
A wan fraternal Shade, and bade him 
kneel. 
And paled his temples with the crown of 
Spain, 
While trumpets rang, and heralds cried, 
" Castile ! " 9 



1 




x^^M ' . 


.. ~ \^ V7^ 


\ 




i:^ 


J«-1 s 


r- 1-^ / 


jjy 


^ 








1 


P 








THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 171 






Nut that he loved him — No ! — In no man's 


Wild Biscay shook his mountain 




weal, 


coronet. 








Scarce in his own, e'er joy'd that sul- 


Valencia roused her at the battle-call. 








[ len heart ; 


And, foremost still where Valor's sons 


^ 






Yet round that throne he bade his warriors 


are met. 






wheel, 


First started to his gun each fiery Miquelet 






That the poor Puppet might perform 








his part, 


XLVII. 






And be a sceptred slave, at his stern beck 
to start. 


But unappall'd and burning for the fight, 






The Invaders march, of victory secure ; 






XLIV. 


Skilful their force to sever or unite. 

And train'd alike to vanquish or en- 
dure. 






But on the Natives of that Land misused, 






Not long the silence of amazement 
hung, 
Not brook'd they long their friendly faith 
abused ; 


Nor skilful less, cheap conquest to ensure. 






Discord to breathe, and jealousy to sow. 
To quell by boasting, and by Ijribes to 
lure ; 






For, with a common shriek, the general 


While nought against them bring the 






tongue 
Exclaimed, " To arms ! " and fast to arms 


unpracticed foe. 
Save hearts for Freedom's cause, and hands 






they sprung. 


for Freedom's blow. 






And Valor woke, that Genius of 








the Land! 


XLVIII. 






Pleasure, and ease, and sloth, aside he 








flung. 


Proudly they march — but, ! they march 






As burst th' awakening Nazarite his 


not forth 






band, 


By one hot field to crown a brief 






When 'gainst his treacherous foes he clench'd 


campaign, 






his dreadful hand.* 


As when their Eagles, sweeping through 
the North, 






XLV. 


Destroy'd at every stoop an ancient 






That Mimic Monarch now cast anxious 


reign 1 






eye 


Far other fate had Heaven decreed for 






Upon the Satraps that begirt him 


Spain ; 






round, 


In vain the steel, in vain the torch was 






Now doff' d his royal robe in act to fly. 


plied. 






And from his brow the diadem un- 


New Patriot armies started from the 






bound. 


slain. 






So oft, so near, the Patriot bugle wound. 


High blazed the war, and long, and far. 






From Tarick's walls to Bilboa's moun- 


and wide,'° 






tains blown. 


And oft the God of Battles blest the right- 






These martial satellites hard labor 


eous side. 






found. 








To guard a while his substituted 


XLIX. 






throne — 


Nor unatoned, where Freedom's foes 






Light recking of his cause, but battling for 


prevail. 






their own. 


Remain'd their savage waste. With 
blade and brand. 






XLVI. 


By day the Invaders ravaged hill and dale. 






From Alpuhara's peak that bugle rung, 


But, with the darkness, the Guerilla 






And it was echo'd from Corunna's 


band 






wall; 


Came like night's tempest, and avenged 






• ^ Stately Seville responsive war-shot flung. 


the land. 


^ 






Grenada caught it in her Moorish hall ; 


And claim' d for blood the retribution 








Galicia bade her child.-en fight or fall. 


due. 
Probed the hard heart, and loop'd the 
murd'rous hand ; 








* Samsor\. See Judges, chap. xv. 9—16- 












A 


] 






(i_| 3 


^ — 1—5 \ 


-rf 




Vj - 


<H D • • ^1 1> 


/ 











1 




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i" 1 


c 


f^ 


- ^ 




J\^^ ^ 


(• 


-5 


^T 




•\ r* 










172 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 






And Dawn, when o'er the scene her 


INIanning the towers while o'er their heads 




beams slie threw, 


the air 






[j, Midst ruins they had made, the spoilers' 


Swart as the smoke from raging furnace 






corpses knew. 


hung ; 






L. 


Now thicker dark'ning where the mine 






What minstrel verse may sing, or tongue 


was sprung, 
Now briefly lighten'd by the cannon's 






may tell. 


flare. 






— Amid the vision'd strife from sea to sea, 


Now arch'd with fire-sparks as the bomb 
was flung. 






How oft the Patriot banners rose or fell, 






Still honor'd in defeat as victory! 


And redd'ning now with conflagration's 






For that sad pageant of events to be, 


i^lare, 






Show'd every form of fight by field 


While by the fatal light the foes for storm 






and flood ; 








Slaughter and Ruin, shouting forth their 


prepare. 






glee, 


LIV. 






Beheld, while riding on the tempest 


While all around was danger, strife, and 






scud. 


fear. 






The waters choked with slain, the earth 


While the earth shook, and darken'd 






bedrench'd with blood ! 


was the sky. 






LI. 


And wide Destruction stunn'd the listen- 






Then Zaragoza — blighted be the tongue 


ing ear, 
Appall'd the heart, and stupefied the 






That names thy name without the 


eye,^ 
Afar was heard that thrice-repeated cry, 






honor duel 






for never hath the harp of Minstrel rung 


In which old Albion's heart and tongue 






Of faith so felly proved, so firmly true ! 


unite, 






Mine, sap, and bomb, thy shatter'd ruins 


Whene'er her soul is up, and pulse beats 






knew. 


high. 






Each art of v/ar's extremity had room. 


Whether it hail the wine cup or the 






Twice from thy half-sack'd streets the 


fight, 






foe withdrew, 


And bid each arm be strong, or bid each 






And when at length stern fate decreed 


heart be light. 






thy doom, 








They won not Zaragoza, but her children's 


LV. 






bloody tomb." 


Don Roderick turn'd him as the shout 






LII. 


grew loud — 






A varied scene the changeful vision 






Yet raise thy head, sad city ! Though in 


show'd, 






chains, 


For, where the ocean mingled with the 






Enthrall'd thou canst not be I Arise, 


cloud. 






and claim 


A gallant navy stemm'd the billows 






Reverence from every heart where Free- 


broad. 






dom reigns, 


From mast and stern St. George's symbol 






For what thou worshippest ! — thy 


flow'd. 






sainted dame, 


Blent with the silver cross to Scotland 






She of the Column, honor'd be her name. 


clear j 






By all, whate'er their creed, who honor 


Mottling the sea their landward barges 






love 1 


row'd. 






And like the sacred relics of the flame. 


And flash'd the sun on bayonet, brand. 






That gave some martyr to the bless'd 


and spear. 






above, 


And the wild beach return'd the seaman's 






To every loyal heart may thy sad embers 


jovial cheer. 




"■ 


p prove 1 

LIII. 


Lvi. •] r 






Nor thine alone such wreck. Gerona fair ! 


It was a dread, yet spirit-stirring sight ! 






Faithful to death thy heroes shall be 


The billows foam'd beneath a thousand 






sung, 


oars. 




L 


h^ 






J I 




\-/ 


c 1 


<• 1 •) 


— ^>^ 


^ — 








(. 1 


(. \ i 


— 


1 



4 



CF 



THE VISION OF DON RODFRICK. 



173 



Fast as they land the red-cross ranks 
unite, 
Legions on legions bright'ning all the 
shores. 
Then banners rise, and cannon-signal 
roars, 
Then peals the warlike thunder of the 
drum. 
Thrills the loud fife, the trumpet-flourish 
pours, 
And patriot hopes awake, and doubts 
are dumb. 
For, bold in Freedom's cause, the bands of 
Ocean come 1 

LVII. 

A various host they came — whose ranks 
display 
Each mode in which the warrior meets 
the fight. 
The deep battalion locks its firm a>Tay, 
And meditates his aim the marksman 
light; 
Far glance the light of sabres flashing 
bright. 
Where mounted squadrons shake the 
echoing mead. 
Lacks not artillery breathing flame and 
night. 
Nor the fleet ordnance whirl'd by rapid 
steed. 
That rivals lightning's flash in ruin and in 
speed. 

LVIII. 

A various host — from kindred realms they 
came. 
Brethren in arms, but rivals in re- 
nown— 
For yon fair bands shall merry England 
claim, 
And with their deeds of valor deck her 
crown. 
Hers their bold port, and hers their mar- 
tial frown. 
And hers their scorn of death in free- 
dom's cause. 
Their eyes of azure, and their locks of 
brown. 
And the blunt speech that bursts with- 
out a pause. 
And freeborn thoughts, which league the 
Soldier with the Laws. 

LIX. 

And, O ! loved warriors of the Minstrel's 
land! 
Yonder your bonnets nod, your tartans 
wave ' 



The rugged form may mark the mountain 
band. 
And harsher features, and a mien more 
grave ; 
But ne'er in battle-field throbb'd heart so 
brave. 
As that which beats beneath the Scot- 
tish plaid ; 
And when the pibroch bids the battle 
rave, 
And level for the charge your arms are 
laid. 
Where lives the desperate foe that for such 
onset staid 1 



Hark 1 from yon stately ranks what laugh- 
ter rings. 
Mingling wild mirth with war's stem 
minstrelsy. 
His jest while each blithe comrade round 
him flings, 
And moves to death with military 
glee : 
Boast, Erin, boast them 1 tameless, frank, 
and free. 
In kindness warm, and fierce in danger 
known. 
Rough nature's children, humorous as 
she : 
And He, yon Chieftain — strike the 
proudest tone 
Of thy bold harp, green Isle ! — the Hero is 
thine own. 



Now on the scene 'Vimeira * should be 

shown. 
On Talavera's fight should Roderick 

gaze. 
And hear Corunna wail her battle won, 
And see Busaco's crest with lightning 
blaze : — 
But shall fond fable mix with heroes' 
praise? 
Hath Fiction's stage for Truth's long 
triumphs room ? 
And dare her wild-flowers mingle with the 
bays, 
That claim a long eternity to bloom 
Around the warrior's crest, and o'er the war- 
rior's tomb I 



* The battle of Vimeira was fought Augusi 
2ist, iSoSj Corunna, January i6th, 1S09 ; Tal- 
avera, July 28th, 1S09 ; Busaco, Septembei 
27th, iSio 




174 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Or may I give adventurous Fancy 
scop3, 
And stretch a bold hand to the awful 
veil 
That hides futurity from anxious hope, 
Bidding beyond it scenes of glory 
hail. 
And panting Europe rousing at the tale 
Of Spain's invaders from her confines 

hurl'u, 
While kindling nations buckle on their 

mail, 
And Fame, with clarion-blast and wings 
unfurl'd. 
To Freedom and Revenge awakes an in- 
jured World? 

LXIII. 

O vain, though anxious, is the glance I 
cast. 
Since Fate has mark'd futurity her 
own : 
Yet fate resigns to worth the glorious 
past, 
The deeds recorded, and the laurels 
won. 
Then, though the Vault of Destiny '^ be 
gone. 
King, Prelate, all the phantasms of my 
brain. 
Melted away like mist-wreaths in the sun. 
Yet grant for faith, for valor, and for 
Spain, 
One note of pride and fire, a Patriot's part- 
ing strain ! 



CONCLUSION. 



" Who shall command Estrella's moun- 
tain-tide 
Back to the source, when tempest- 
chafed, to hie ? 
Who, when Gascogne's vex'd gulf is raging 
wide. 
Shall hush it as a nurse her infant's 
cry? 
His magic power let such vain boaster try. 
And when the torrent shall his voice 
obey. 
And Biscay's whirl winds list his lullaby. 
Let him stand forth and bar mine 
eagles' way. 
And they shall heed his voice, and at his 
bidding stay. 



" Else ne'er to stoop, till hi^h on Lisbon's 
towers 
They close their wings, the symbol of 
our yoke. 
And their own sea hath whelm'd yon red- 
cross Powers ! " 
Thus, on the summit of Alverca's 
rock, 
To Marshal, Duke, and Peer, Gaul's 
Leader spoke. 
While downward on the land his legions 
press. 
Before them it was jich with vine and 
flock. 
And smiled like Eden in her summer 
dress ; 
Behind their wasteful march, a reeking 
wilderness.'^ 



And shall the boastful Chief maintain his 
word. 
Though Heaven hath heard the wail- 
ings of the land. 
Though Lusitania whet her vengeful 
sword. 
Though Britons arm, and Welling- 
ton command ! 
No ! grim Busaco's iron ridge shall stand 

An adamantine barrier to his force ; 
And from its base shall wheel his shat- 
ter'd band. 
As from the unshaken rock the torrent 
hoarse 
Bears off its broken waves, and seeks z 
devious course. 



Yet not because Alcoba's mountain-hawk 
Hath on his best and bravest made her 
food. 
In numbers confident, yon Chief shall 
balk 
His Lord's imperial thirst for spoil and 
blood : 
For full in view the promised conquest 
stood, 
And Lisbon's matrons from their walls 
might sum 
The myriads that had half the world sub- 
dued. 
And hear the distant thunders of the 
drum, 
That bids the bands of France to storm and 
havoc come. 



hV 



THE VISION OF DO IV RODERICK. 



ns 



V. 

Four moons have heard these thunders 
idly roll'd, 
Have seen these wistful myriads eye 
their prty, 
As famish'd wolves survey a guarded 
fold- 
But in the middle path a Lion lay ! 
At length they move — but not to battle- 
fray, 
Nor blaze yon fires where meets the 
manly fight ; 
Beacons of infamy, they light the way 
Where cowardice and cruelty unite 
To damn with double shame their ignomin- 
ious flight ! 

VI. 

O triumph for the Fiends of Lust and 
Wrath ! 
Ne'er to be told, yet ne'er to be for- 
got, 
What wanton horrors mark'd their wreck- 
ful path ! 
The peasant butcher'd in his ruin'd 
cot. 
The hoary priest even at the altar shot, 
Childhood and age given o'er to sword 
and flame. 
Woman to infamy ; — no crime forgot. 
By which inventive demons might pro- 
claim 
Immortal hate to man, and scorn of God's 
great name ! 



The rudest sentinel, in Britain born, 
With horror paused to view the havoc 
done, 
Gave his poor crust to feed some wretch 
forlorn,'* 
Wiped his stern eye, then fiercer 
grasp'd his gun. 
Nor with less zeal shall Britain's peaceful 
son 
Exult the death of sympathy to pay ; 
Riches nor poverty the tax shall shun, 
Nor prince nor peer, the wealthy nor 
the gay, 
Nor the poor peasant's mite, nor bard's 
more worthless lay. 

VIII. 

But thou — unfoughten wilt thou yield to 
Fate, 
Minion of Fortune, now miscall'd in 
vain 1 



Can vantage-ground no confidence cre- 
ate, 
Marce'la's pass, nor Guarda's moun- 
tain-chain ? 
Vainglorious fugitive ! '^ yet turn again I 
Behold, where, named by some pro- 
phetic Seer, 
Flows Honor's Fountain,* and fore- 

doom'd the stain 
From thy dishonor'd name and arms to 
clear — 
Fallen Child of Fortune, turn, redeem her 
favor here I 

IX. 

Yet, ere thou turn'st, collect each distant 
aid ; 
Those chief that never heard the lion 
roar ! 
Within whose souls lives not a trace por- 
tray'd 
Of Talavera, or Mondego's shore ! 
Marshal each band thou hast, and sum- 
mon more ; 
Of war's fell stratagems exhaust the 
whole ; 
Rank upon rank, squadron on squadron 
pour, 
Legion on Legion on thy foeman roll. 
And weary out his arm — thou canst not 
quell his soul. 

X. 

O vainly gleams with steel Agueda's 
shore, 
Vainly thy squadrons hide Assuava's 
plain. 
And front the flying thunders as they roar. 
With frantic charge and tenfold odds, 
in vain ! '^ 
And what avails thee that, for Cameron 
slain,'' 
Wild from his plaided ranks the yell 
was given — 
Vengeance and grief gave mountain-rage 
the rein. 
And, at the bloody spear-point head- 
long driven. 
Thy Despot's giant guards fled like the 
rack of heaven. 

XI. 

Go, baffled boaster ! teach thy haughty 
mood 
To plead at thine imperious master's 
throne, 

* The literal translation of Fuentes d'He- 
twro. 



176 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Say, thou hast left his legions in their 
blood, 
Deceived his hopes, and frustrated thine 
own ; 
Say, that tliine utmost skill and valor 
shown, 
By British skill and valor were out- 
vied ; 
Last say, thy conqueror was Welling- 
ton ! 
And if he chafe, be his own fortune 
tried — 
God and our cause to friend, the venture 
we'll abide. 



But you, ye heroes of that well-fought 
day. 
How shall a bard, unknowing and un- 
known. 
His meed to each victorious leader pay, 

Or bind on every brow the laurels won ? 
Yet fain my harp would wake its boldest 
tone, 
O'er the wide sea to hail Cadogan 
brave ; 
And he, perchance, the minstrel-note 
might own, 
Mindful of meeting brief that Fortune 
gave 
Mid yon far western isles that hear the At- 
lantic rave. 



Yes! hard the task, when Britons wield 
the sword. 
To give each Chief and every field its 
fame : 
Hark! Albuera thunders Beresford, 
And Red Barossa shouts for dauntless 
Gr/Eme ! 
O for a verse of tumult and of flame, 
Bold as the bursting of their cannon 
sound. 
To bid the world re-echo to their fame ! 
For never, upon gory battle-ground, 
With conquest's weli-bought wreath were 
braver victors crown 'd ! 



O who shall grudge him Albuera's bays, 
Who brought a race regenerate to the 
field. 
Roused _ them to emulate their fathers' 
praise, 
Temper'd their headlong rage, their 
courage stee'd,'^ 



And raised fair Lusitania's fallen shield. 
And gave new edge to Lusitania's 
sword, 
And taught her sons forgotten arms to 
wield — 
Shiver'd my harp, and burst its every 
chord. 
If it forget thy worth, victorious Beres- 
ford ! 



Not on that bloody field of battle won. 
Though Gaul's proud legions roll'd 
like mist away, 
Was half his self-devoted valor 
shown, — 
He gaged but life on that illustrious 
day ; 
But when he toil'd those squadrons to 
array, 
Who fought like Britons in the bloody 
game. 
Sharper than Polish pike or assagay, 
He braved the shafts of censure and 
of shame. 
And, dearer far than life, he pledged a sol- 
dier's fame. 



Nor be his praise o'erpast who strove to 
hide 
Beneath the warrior's vest affection's 
wound, 
Whose wish Heaven for his country's 
weal denied ; 
Danger and fate he sought, but glory 
found. 
From clime to clime, where'er war's trum- 
pets sound. 
The wanderer went : yet, Caledonia ! 
still 
Thine was his thought in march and 
tented ground ; 
He dream'd 'mid Alpine cliffs of 
Athole's hill, 
And heard in Ebro's roar his Lyndoch's 
lovely rill. 

XVII. 

O hero of a race renown'd of old, 

Whose war-cry oft has waked the bat- 
tle-swell, 
Since first distinguished in the onset bold, 
Wild sounding when the Roman ram- 
part fell ! 
By Wallace' side it rung the Southron's 
knell. 



THE VIS TON OF DON RODERICK. 



177 



Alderne, Kilsythe, and Tibber own'd its 
fame, 
Tummell's rude pass can of its terrors 
tell, 
But ne'er from prouder field arose the 
name, 
Than when wild Ronda learn'd the con- 
quering shout of GRiEME ! '9 

XVIIJ. 

But all too long, through seas unknown 

and dark, [tale,) 

(With Spenser's parable I close my 



By shoal and rock hath steer'd my 'ven- 
turous bark. 
And landward now I drive before the 
gale. 
And now the blue and distant shore I 
hail, 
And nearer now I see the port ex 
pand. 
And now I gladly furl my weary sail, 
And as the prow light touches on the 
strand, 
I strike my red-cross flag and bind my skifi 
to land. 



ROKEBY: 



A POEM IN SIX CANTOS. 



JOHN B. S. MORRITT, ESQ. 

THIS POEM, THE SCENE OF WHICH IS LAID IN HIS BEAUTIFUL DEMESNE OF 
ROKEBY IS INSCRIBED, IN TOKEN OF SINCERE FRIENDSHIP. 



WALTER SCOTT. 



ADVERTISEMENT TO THE FIRST EDITION. 

The Scene of this Poem is laid at Rokeby, near Greta Bridge, in Yorkshire, and shifts to 
the ndjacent Fortress of Barnard Castle, and to other places in t)ie Vicinity. 

The Time occupied by the Action is a space of Five days. Three of which are supposed to 
elapse between the end of tJie Fifth and the beginning of the Sixth Canto. 

The date of the stipposed events is itnmediaiely subsequent to the great Battle of Marston 
Moor, zd July 1644. This peried of public confusion has been chosen, without any pur- 
pose of combining the Fable with the Military or Political Events of the Civil War, but 
only as affording a degree of probability to the Fictitious narrative now presented to thl 
Public. 



i 




tjS 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



INTRODUCTION TO EDITION 1830. 

Betwebn the publication of " The Lady of the Lake," which was so eminently successful, 
and that of " Rokeby," in 1S13, three years had intervened. I shall not, I believe, be accused 
of ever haying attempted to usurp a superiority over many men of genius, my contemporaries ; 
but, in point of popularity, not of actual talent, the caprice of the public had certainly given 
me such a temporary superiority over men, of whom in regard to poetical fancy and feeling, I 
scarcely thought myself worthy to loose the shoe-latch. On the other hand, it would be absurd 
affectation in me to deny, that I conceived myself to understand, more perfectly than many 
of my contemporaries, the manner most likely to interest the great mass of mankind. Yet, 
even with this belief, I inust truly and fairly say, that I always considered myself rather as one 
who held the bets, in time to be paid over to the winner, than as having any pretence tc keep 
diem in my own right. 

In the mean time years crept on, and not without their usual depredations on the passing 
generation. My sons had arrived at the age when the paternal home was no longer their besl 
abode, as both were destined to active life. The field-sports, to which I was peculiarly attached, 
had now less interest, and w-ere replaced by other amusements of a more quiet character ; and 
the means and opportunity of pursuing these were to be sought for. I had, indeed, for some 
years attended to farming, a knowledge of which is, or at least was then, indispensable to the 
comfort of a family residing in a solitary country-house ; but although this was the favorite 
amusement of many of my friends, I have never been able to consider it as a source of pleasure. 
I never could think it a matter of passing importance, that my cattle, or crops, were better or 
more plentiful than those of my neighbors, and nevertheless I began to feel the necessity of 
some more quiet out-door occupation, different from those I had hitherto pursued. I purchased 
a small farm of about one hundred acres, with the purpose of planting and improving it, to which 
property circumstances afterwards enabled me to make considerable additions ; and thus an era 
took place in my life, almost equal to the important one mentioned by the Vicar of Wakefield, 
when he removed from the Blue-room to the Brown. In point of neighborhood, at least, the 
change of residence made little more difference. Abbotsford, to whicli we removed, was only 
six or seven miles down the Tweed, and lay on the same beautiful stream. It did not possess 
the romantic character of Ashestiel, my former residence ; but it had a stretch of meadow-land 
along the river, and possessed, in the phrase of the landscape-gardener, considerable capabilities. 
Above all, the land was my own, like Uncle Toby's Bowling-green, to do what I would with. 
It had been, though the gratification was long postponed, an early wish of mine to connect 
myself with my mother-earth, and prosecute those experiments by which a species of creative 
power is exercised over the face of nature. I can trace, even to childhood, a pleasure derived 
from Dodsley's account of Shenstone's Leasowes, and I envied the poet much more for the 
pleasure of accomplishing the objects detailed in his friend's sketch of his grounds, ban for the 
possession of pipe, crook, flock, and Phillis to boot. My memory, also, tenacious of quaint 
expressions, still retained a phrase which it had gathered from an old almanac of Charles the 
Second's time (when everything down to almanacs affected to be smart), in which the reader, 
in the month of June, is advised, for health's sake, to walk a mile or two every day before break- 
fast, and, if he can possibly so manage, to let his exercise be taken upon his own land. 

With the satisfaction of having attained the fulfilment of an early and long-cherished hope, I 
commenced my improvements, as delightful in their progress as those of the child who first 
makes dress for a new doll. The nakedness of the land was in time hidden by woodlands of 
considerable extent — the smallest of possible cottages was progressively expanded into a sort of 
drearn of a mansion-house, whimsical in the exterior, but convenient within. Nor did I forget 
what is the natural pleasure of every man who has been a reader, I mean the filling the shelves 
of a tolerably large library. All these objects I keot in view, to be executed as convenience 
should serve and although I knew many years must elapse before they could be attained, I 
was of a disposition to comfort myself with the Spanish proverb, " Time and I against any two." 

The difficult and indispensable point, of finding a permanent subject of occupation, was now 
at length attained ; but there was annexed to it the necessity of becoming again a candidate for 
public favor; fcr, as I was turned improver on the earth of th. every-day world, it was under 
condition that the small tenement of Parnassus, which might be accessible to my labors, should 
not remain uncultivated. 

I meditated, at first, a poem on the subject of Bruce, in which I made some progress, but after- 
wards judged it advisable to lay it aside, supposing that an English story might have more 
novelty ; in consequence, the precedence was given to " Rokeby." 

If subject and scenery could have influenced the fate of a poem, that of " Rokeby " should 
have been eminently distinguished ; for the grounds belong to a dear friend, with when. I had 





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ROKEBY. 



179 



lived in habits of intimacy for many years, and the place itself united the romantic beauties of 
the wilds of Scotland with tne rich and smiling aspect of the southern portion of the island. But 
the Cavaliers and Roundheads, whom I attempted to summon up to tenant this beautiful region, 
had for the public neither the novelty nor the peculiar interest of tlie primitive Highlanders. 
This, perhaps, was scarcely to be expected, considering that the general mind sympathizes 
readily and at once with the stamp whirh nature herself has affixed upon the manners of a people 
living in a simple and patriarchal state; whereas it has more difficulty in understanding or 
interesting itself in manners founded upon those peculiar habits of thinking or acting, which are 
produced by the progress of society. We could read with pleasure the tale of the adventures of 
a Cossack or a IVIongol Tartar, while we only wonder and stare over those of the lovers in the 
" Pleasing Chinese History," where the embarrassments turn upon difficulties arising out of 
unintelligible delicacies peculiar to the customs and manners of that affected people. 

The ciuse of my failure had, however, a far deeper root. The manner, or style, which, by it:' 
novelty, attracted the public in an unusual degree, had now, after having been three times before 
them, exhausted the patience of the reader, and began in the fourth to lose its charms. The 
reviewers may be said to have apostrophized the author in the language of Parnell's Edwiu ;— 

" And here reverse the charm, he cries 
And let it fairly now suffice. 
The gambol has been shown." 

The licentious combination of rhymes, in a mantier not perhaps very congenial to ourianguage, 
had not been confined to the author. Indeed, in most similar cases, the inventors of such novel- 
ties have their reputation destroyed by their own imitators, as Actaeon fell under the fury of his 
own dogs. The present author, like Bobadil, had taught his trick of fence to a hundred gentle- 
men (and ladies), who could fence very nearly, or quite, as well as himself. For this there was 
no remedy ; the harmony became tiresome and ordinary, and both the original inventor and his 
invention must have fallen into contempt, if he had not found out another road to public favor 
What has been said of the metre only, must be considered to apply equally to the Structure of 
the Poem and of the style. The very best passages of any popular style are not, i)erhaps, sus- 
ceptible of imitation, but they may be approached by men of talent ; and those who are less able 
to copy them, at least lay hold of their peculiar features, so as to produce a strong burlesque. 
In either way, the effect of the manner is rendered cheap and common ; and, in the latter case, 
ridiculous to boot. The evil consequences to an author's reputation are at least as fatal as those 
which come upon the musical composer, when his melody falls into the hands of the street ballad- 
singer. 

Of the unfavorable species of imitation, the author's style gave room to a very large number, 
owing to an appearance of facility to which some of those who used the measure unquestionably 
leaned too far. The effect of the more favorable imitations, composed by persons of talent, was 
almost equally unfortunate to the original minstrel, by showing that they could overshoot him 
with his own bow. In short, the popularity which once attended the ^'r/it'^?/, as it was called, 
was now fast decaying. 

Besides all this, to have kept his ground at the crisis when " Rokeby " appeared, its author 
ought to have put forth his utmost strength, and to have possessed at least all his original 
advantages, for a mighty and unexpected rival was advancing on the stage — a rival not in 
poetical powers only, but in that art of attracting popularity, in which the present writer had 
hitherto preceded better men than himself. The reader will easily see that Byron isliere meant, 
who, after a little velitation of no great promise, now appeared as a serious candidate, in the 
" First two Cantos of Childe Harold." I was astonished at the power evinced by that work, 
which neither the " Hours of Idleness," nor the " English Bards and Scotch Reviewers," had 
prepared me to expect from its author. There was a depth in his thought, an e.ager abundance 
in his diction, which argued full confidence in the inexhaustible resources of which he felt him- 
self possessed ; and there was some appearance of that labur 01 the file, which indicates that the 
author is conscious of the necessity of doing every justice to his work, that it may jiass warrant. 
Lord Byron was also a traveller, a man whose ideas were fired by having seen, in distant scenes oi 
difficulty and danger, the places whose very names are recorded in our bosoms as the shrines of 
ancient poetry. For his own misfortune, perliaps, but certainly to the high increase of his poeti- 
cal character, nature had mixed in Lord Byron's system those passions v.'hich agitate the human 
heart with most violence, and which may be said to have hurried his bright career to an early 
close. There would have been little wisdom in measuring my force with so formidable an 
antagonist ; and I was as likely to tire of playing the second fiddle in the concert, as my au- 
dience of hearing me. Age also was advancing. I was growing insensible to those subjects of 
excitation by which youth is agitated. I had around me the most pleasant but least exciting of 
all society, that of kind friends and an affectionate family. My circle of employments was a 
narrow one ; it occupied me constantly, and it became daily more difficult for me to interest 
myself in poetical composition : — 






SCO TT 'S POE TIC A L WORKS. 



" How happily the days of Thalaba went by ! " 

Yet, though conscious that 1 must be, in the opinion ot good judges, inferior to the piace I 
had for four or five years held in letters, and feeling alike that the latter was one to which I had 
only a temporary right. I could not brook the idea of relinquishing literary occupation, which 
had been so long my chief diversion. Neither was I disposed to choose the alternative of sink- 
ing mto a mere edl or and commentator, though that was a species of labor which I had prac- 
tised, and -o which I was attached. But I could not endure to think that 1 might not, whether 
known or concealed, do something of more importance. My inmost thoughts were those of the 
Trojan Captain in the galley race, — 

Non jam, prima peto Mnestheus, neque vincere certo ; 
Quanquam O ! — sed superent, quibus hoc, Neptune, dedistl ; 
Extremos pudeat rediisse : hoc vincite, cives, 
Et prohibete nefas " * — ^n. lib. v. 194. 

I had, indeed, some private reasons for my " Quanquam O ! " which were not worse than 
those of Mnestheus, I have already hinted that the materials were collected for a poem on the 
subject of Bruce, and fragments of it had been shown to some of my friends, and received with 
applause. Notwithstanding, therefore, the eminent success of Byron, and the great chance of 
his taking the wind out of my sails, there was, I judged, a species of cowardice in desisting from 
the task which I had undertaken, and it was time enough to retreat when the battle should be 
more decidedly lost. The sale of "^okeby," excepting as compared with that of " The Lady 
of the I,ake," was in the highest degree respectable ; and as it included fifteeen hundred quartos, 
in those quarto-reading days, the trade had no reason to be dissatisfied. 

Abbotsford, April, 1S30. 



R O K E B Y. 



CANTO FIRST, 
I. 

The INIoon is in her summer glow, 
But hoarse and high the breezes blow, 
And, racking o'er her face, the cloud 
Varies the tincture of her shroud ; 
On Barnard's towers, and Tees's stream,' 
She changes as a guilty dream, 
When conscience, with remorse and fear, 
Goads sleeping Fancy's wild career. 
Her light seems now the blush of shame, 
Seems now fierce anger's darker flame, 
Shifting that shade, to come and go, 
Like apprehension's hurried glow ; 
Then sorrow's livery dims the air, 
And dies in darkness, like despair. 
Such varied luies the warder sees 
Reflected from the woodland Tees, 
Then from old Baliol's tower looks forth, 
See the clouds mustering in the north, 



Hears, upon turret-roof and wall, 
By fits the plashing rain-drop fall, 
Lists to the breeze's boding sound, 
And wraps his shaggy mantle round. 



Those towers, which in the changeful gleam 
Throw murky shadows on the stream, 
Those towers of Barnard hold a guest, 
The emotions of whose troubled breast, 
In wild and strange confusion driven, 
Rival tlte flitting rack of heaven. 
Ere sleep stern Oswald's senses tied, 
Oft had he changed his weary side. 
Composed his limbs, and vainly sought 
By effort strong to banish thought. 
Sleep came at length, but with a train 
Of feelings true and fancies vain, 
Mingling, in wild disorder cast, 
The expected future with the i5ast. 



" I seek not now the foremost palm to again ; 
Though yet — but ah ! that haughty wish is vain 1 
Let those enjoy it whom the gods ordain. 
But to be last, the lags of all the race '.— 
Redeexn yourselves and me from that disgrace." — Dryden. 






On Baruard's towers and Tees's stream." 

Rokebj, cauto i. 1. 



1 




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c t 


1— ' 1 K 


] 




6-| 9 


1 






ROKEBY. l8l 






1 
Conscience, anticipating time, 


As marshalling the stranger's way. 




Already rues the enacted crime, 


Straight for the room where Oswald lay ; 






And calls her furies forth, to shake 


The cry was, — " Tidings from the host, 






" ^ The sounding scourge and hissing snake ; 


Of weight — a messenger comes post." ^ 


' 




While her poor victim's outward throes 


Stifling the tumult of his breast, . 






Bear witness to his mental woes, 


His answer Oswald thus express'd — 






And show wha'. lesson may be read 


" Bring food and wine, and trim the fire-, 






Beside a sinner's restless bed. 


Admit the stranger, and retire." 






III. 
Thus Oswald's laboring feelings trace 
Strange changes in his sleeping face, 


VI. 

The stranger came with heavy stride. 
The morion's plumes his visage hide, 






Rapid and ominous as these 


And the buff-coat, an ample fold, 






With which the moonbeams tinge the 


Mantles his form's gigantic mould.3 






Tees. 


Full slender answer deigned he 






There might be seen of shame the blush. 


To Oswald's anxious courtesy, 






There anger's dark and fiercer flush, 


But mark'd, by a disdainful smile. 






While the perturbed sleepers hand 


He saw and scorn' d the petty wile. 






Seem'd grasping dagger-knife, or brand. 


When Oswald changed the torch's place, 






Relax'd that grasp, the heavy sigh. 


Anxious that on the soldier's face 






The tear in the half-opening eye, 


Its partial lustre might be throivn, 






The pallid cheek and brow, confess'd 


To show his looks, yet hide his own. 






That grief was busy in his breast ; 


His guest, the while, laid low aside 






Nor paused that mood — a sudden start 


The ponderous cloak of tough bull's hide, 






Impell'd the life-blood from the heart : 


And to the torch glanced broad and clear 






Features convulsed, and mutterings dread. 


The corslet of a cuirassier ; 






Show terror reigns in sorrow's stead. 


Then from his brows the casque he drew, 






That pang the painful slumber broke, 


And from the dank plume dash'd the 






And Oswald with a start awoke. 


dew, 






IV. 


From gloves of mail relieved his hands. 






And spread them to the kindling brands 






He woke, and fear'd again to close 


And, turning to the genial board. 






His eyelids in such dire repose ; 


Without a health, or pledge, or word 






He woke, — to watch the lamp, and tell 


Of meet and social reverence said. 






From hour to hour the castle-bell. 


Deeply he drank, and fiercely fed ; 






Or listen to the owlet's cry. 


As free from ceremony's sway. 






Or the sad breeze that whistles by, 


As famish'd wolf that tears his prey. 






Or catch, by fits, the tuneless rhyme 








With which the warder cheats the time. 


VII. 






And envying think, how, when the sun 


With deep impatience, tinged with fear, 






Bids the poor soldier's watch be done. 


His host beheld him gorge his cheer. 






Couch'd on his straw, and fancy-free, 


And quaff the full carouse, that lent 






He sleeps like careless infancy. 


His brow a fiercer hardiment. 
Now Oswald stood a space aside. 






V. 


Now paced the room with hasty stride, 






' Far townward sounds a distant tread. 


In feverish agony to learn 






And Oswald, starting from his bed, 


Tidings of deep and dread concern. 






Hath caught it, though no human ear,- 


Cursing each moment that his guest 






Unsharpen'dby revenge' and fear. 


Protracted o'er his ruffian feast. 






Could e'er distinguish horse's clank, 


Vet, viewing with alarm, at last, 






Until it reach'd the castle bank. 


The end of that uncouth repast. 






Now nigh and plain the sound appears, 


Almost he seem'd their haste to rue. 




^ 


The warder's challenge now he hears. 


As, at his sign, his train withdrew, 






Then clanking chains and levers tell, 


And left him with the stranger, free *] f 






That o'er the moat the drawbridge fell. 


To question of his mystery. 






And, in the castle court below. 


Then did his silence long proclaim 






Voices are heard, and torches glow, 


A struggle between fear and shame. 




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l82 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Much in the stranger's mien appears, 
To justify suspicious fears. 
On his dark face a scorching chme/ 
And toil, had done the work of time, 
Roughen'd the brow, the temples bared, 
And sable hairs with silver shared, 
Yet left — what age alone could tame — 
The lip of pride, the eye of flame ; 
The full-drawn lip that upward curl'd. 
The eye that seem'd to scorn the wi rid. 
That lip had terror never blench'd ; 
Ne'er in that eye had tear-drop quencli'd 
The flash severe of swarthy glow. 
That mock'd at pain, and knew not woe. 
Inured to danger's direst form, 
Tornade and earthquake, flood and storm, 
Death had he seen by sudden blow. 
By wasting plague, by tortures slow, 
By mine or breach, by steel or ball, 
Knew all her shapes, and scorn'd them all. 



But yet, though Bertram's harden'diook 

Unmoved, could blood and danger brook, 

Still worse than apatliy had place 

On his swart brow and callous face ; 

For evil passions, cherish'd long. 

Had plough' d them with impressions 

strong. 
All that gives gloss to sin, all gay 
Light folly, past with youth away. 
But rooted stood, in manhood's hour. 
The weeds of vice without their flower. 
And yet the soil in which they grew, 
Had it been tamed when life was new. 
Had depth and vigor to bring forth 
The hardier fruits of virtuous worth. 
Not that, e'en then, his heart had known 
The gentler feelings' kindly tone ; 
But lavish waste had been refined 
To bounty in his chasten'd mind. 
And lust of gold, that waste to feed. 
Been lost in love of glory's meed, 
And, frantic then no more, his pride 
Had ta'en fair virtue for its guide. 



Even now, by conscience unrestrain'd, 
Clogg'd by gross vice, by slaughter stain'd, 
Still knew his daring soul to soar, 
And mastery o'er the mind he bore ; 
For meaner guilt, or heart less hard, 
Ouail'd beneatb IJertram's bold regard. 
.\nd this felt Oswald, while in vain 
He strove, by many a winding train 



To lure his sullen guest to show, 
Unask'd, the news he long'd to know, 
While on far other subject hung 
His heart, than falter'd from his tongue. 
Yet nought for that his guest did deign 
To note or spare his secret pain. 
But still, in stern and stubborn sort, 
Return'd him answer dark and short, 
Or started from the theme, to range 
In loose digression wild and strange, 
And forced the embarrass'd host to buy, 
By query close, direct reply. 



A while he glozed upon the cause 
Of Commons, Covenant, and Laws, 
And Church Reform'd — but felt rebuke 
Beneath grim Bertram's sneering look, 
Then stammer'd — "Has a field been 

fought .? 
Has Bertram news of battle brought ? 
For sure a soldier, famed so far 
In foreign fields for feats of war, 
On eve of fight ne'er left the host, 
Until the field were won arnl lost.'' 
" Here, in your towers by circling Tees, 
You, Oswald Wycliffe, rest at ease ; 
Why deem it strange that others come 
To share such safe and easy home. 
From fields where danger, deatii, and toil, 
Are the reward of civil broil .? " — 
" Nay, mock not, friend ! since well we 

know 
The near advances of the foe, 
To mar our northern army's work, 
Encamp'd before 'oeleaguer'd York ; 
Thy horse with valiant Fairfax lay. 
And must have fought — how went the 
day .? " 

XII. 

" Wouldst hear the tale.' — C)n Marston 

heath s 
Met, front to front, the ranks of death , 
Flourish'd the trumpets fierce, and now 
Fired was each eye, and flush'd each brow 
On either side loud clamors ring, 
' God and the Cause 1 ' — ' God and tlie 

King ! ' 
Right English all, they rush'd to blows. 
With nought to win, and all to lose. 
I could have laugh'd — but lack'd the time- 
To see, in phrenesy sublime. 
How the fierce zealots fought and bled, 
For king or state, as humor led ; 
Some for a dream of public good, 
Some for church-tippet, gown, and hood. 






ROKEB Y. 



^ 



187 



Draining their veins, in death to claim 

A patriot's or a martyr's name. — 

Led Bertram Risingham the hearts, 

That counter'd there on adverse parts, 

No superstitious fool had I 

Sought El Dorados in the sky I 

Chili had heard me through her states, 

And Lima oped her silver gates, 

Rirh Mexico I had march'd through. 

And sack'd the splendors of Peru, 

Till sunk Pizarro's daring name, 

And, Cortez, thinfe, in Bertram's fam;. "— 

" Still from the purpose wilt thou stray ! 

Good gentle friend, how went the day ? "— 



" Good am I deem'd at trumpet-sound, 

And good where goblets dance the round, 

Though gentle ne'er was join'd, till now, 

With rugged Bertram's breast and brow. — 

But I resume. The battle's rage 

Was like the strife which currents wage, 

Where Orinoco, in his pride. 

Rolls to the main no tribute tide. 

But 'gainst broad ocean urges far 

A rival sea of roaring war ; 

While, in ten thousand eddies driven. 

The billows fling their foam to heaven, 

And the pale pilot seeks in vain, 

Where rolls the river, wliere the main. 

Even thus upon the bloody field. 

The eddying tides of conflict wheel'd 

Ambiguous, till that heart of flame, 

Hot Rupert, on oiu- squadrons came, 

Hurling against our spears a line 

Of gallants, fiery as tlieir wine ; 

Then ours, though stubborn in their zeal, 

In zeal's despite began to reel. 

What wouldst thou more ? — in tumult tost, 

Our leaders fell, our ranks were lost. 

A thousand men, who drew the sword 

For both the Houses and tlie Word, 

Preach'd forth from hamlet, grange, and 

down. 
To curb the crosier and the crown. 
Now, stark and stiff, lie stretch'd in gore, 
And ne'er shall rail at mitre more. — ■ 
Thus fared it, when I left the fight, 
With the good Cause and Commons' ricrht." 



" Disastrous news ! " dark Wycliffe said; 
Assumed despondence bent his head. 
While troubled joy was in his eye. 
The wjll-feis'n'd sorrow to belie. — 
" Disastrous news — when needed most, 
Told ye not t'nat your chiefs were lost .■' 



Complete the woeful tale and say, 

Who fell upon that fatal day ; 

What leaders of repute and name 

Bought by their death a deathless fame. 

If such my direst foeman's doom. 

My tears shall dew his honor'd tomb. — 

No answer t — Friend, of all our host, < 

Thou know'st whom I should hate the 

most, 
Whom thou, too, once wert wont to hate, 
Yet leavest me doubtful of his fate." 
With look unmoved, — '" Of friend or foe, 
Aught," answer'd ISertram, "would'st thou 

know, 
Demand in simple terms and plain, 
A soldier's answer shalt thou gain ; — 
For question dark, or riddle high, 
I have nor judgment nor reply." 

XV. 

The wrath his art and fear suppress'd, 
Now blazed at once in Wycliffe's breast ; 
.A.nd brave, from man so meanly born, 
Roused his hereditary scorn. 
■' Wretch ! hast thou paid thy bloodj 

debt? 
Philip of Morth.-\m, lives he yet? 
False to thy patron or thine oath, 
Trait'rous or perjured, one or both. 
Slave ! hast thou kept thy promise plight, 
To slay thy leader in the fight?" 
Then from his seat the soldier sprung. 
And Wycliffe's hand he strongly wrung ; 
His grasp, as hard as glove of mail, 
Forced the red blood-drop from the nail — 
" k. health ! " he cried ; and, ere he quaff'd, 
Flung from him Wycliffe's hand, and 

laugh'd : 
— " Now, Oswald Wycliffe, speaks thj 

heart ! 
Now play'st thou well thy genuine part ! 
\\'orthy, but for thy craven fear. 
Like me to roam a buccanier. 
What reck'st thou of the Cause divine, 
If Mortham's wealth and lands be thine 
What carest thou for beleaguer'd York, 
If this good hand have done its work ? 
Or what, though Fairfax and his best 
Are reddening' Marston's swarthy breast, 
If Philip Mortham with them lie. 
Lending his life-blood to the dye? — 
Sit, then ! and as 'mid comrades free 
Carousing after victory. 
When tales are told of blood and fear, 
That bovs and women shrink to hear, 
Fvoni point to point I frankly tell 
The deed of death as it befell. 





^Ek 



184 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



" When purposed vengeance I forego, 

Term me a wretch, nor deem me foe ; 

And when an insult I forgive, 

Then brand me as a slave, and live ! — 

Philip of Mortham is with those 

Whom Bertram Risingham calls foes ; 

Or whom more sure revenge attends, 

If number' d with ungrateful friends. 

As was his wont, ere battle glow'd, 

Along the marshall'd ranks he rode, 

And wore his vizor up the while. 

1 saw his melancholy smile, 

When, full opposed in front, he knew 

Where Rokedy's kindred banner flew. 

' And thus,' he said, ' will friends divide ! ' 

I heard, and thought how, side by side, 

We two had turn'd the battle's tide, 

In many a well-debated field, 

Where Bertram's breast was Philip's shield 

I thought on Darien's deserts pale. 

Where death bestrides the evening gale. 

How o'er my friend my cloak I tlirew. 

And fenceless faced the deadly dew ; 

I thought on Ouariana's cliff, 

Where, rescued from our foundering skiff, 

Through the white breakers' wrath I bore 

Exhausted Mortham to the shore ; 

And when his side an arrow found, 

I suck'd the Indian's venom'd wound. 

These thoughts like torrents rush'd along, 

To sweep away my purpose strong. 

XVII. 

" Hearts are not flint, and flints are rent; 
Hearts are not steel, and steel is bent. 
When Mortham bade me, as of yore, 
Be near him in the battle's roar, 
I scarcely saw the spears laid low, 
I scarcely heard the trumpets blow ; 
Lost was the war in inward strife, 
Debating Mortham's death or life. 
'Twas then I tliought, how, lured to come, 
As partner of his wealth and home. 
Years of piratic wandering o'er, 
V/ith him 1 sought our native shore. 
But Mortham's lord grew far estranged 
From the bold heart with whom he ranged; 
Doubts, horrors, superstitious fears, 
Sadden'd and dimm'd descending years ; 
The wily priests their victim sought, 
And damn'd each free-born deed and 

thought. 
Then must I seek another home, 
My license shook his sober dome ; 
If gold he gave, in one wild day 
I revell'd tlu-ice the sum awav 



An idle outcast then I stray'd, 
Unfit for tillage or for trade, 
Deem'd, like the steel of rusted lance, 
Useless and dangerous at once. 
The women fear'd my hardy look, 
At my approach the peaceful shook ; 
The merchant saw my glance of flame, 
And lock'd his hoards when Bertram 

came ! 
Each child of coward peace kept far 
From the neglected son of war. 



" But civil discord gave the call. 
And made my trade the trade of all. 
By Mortham urged, I came again 
His vassals to the fight to train. 
What guerdon waited on my care? 
I could not cant of creed or prayer ; 
Sour fanatics each trust obtain'd, 
And I, dishonor'd and disdain'd, 
Gain'd but the high and happy lot, 
In these poor arms to front the shot ! — 
All this thou know'st, thy gestures tell ; 
Yet hear it o'er and mark it well. 
'Tis honor bids me now relate 
Each circumstance of Mortham's fate. 



"Tiioughts, from the tongue that slowij 

part, 
Glance quick as liglitning through the heart, 
As my spur press'd my courser's side, 
Philip of Mortham's cause was tried, 
And, ere the charging squadrons niix'd. 
His plea was cast, his doom was fix'd. 
I watch'd him through the doubtful fray. 
That chang'd as March's moody day, 
Till, like a stream that bursts its bank, 
Fierce Rupert thunder'd on our flank, 
'Twas tlien, 'midst tumult, smoke, and 

strife, 
WJiere each man fought for death or life, 
'Twas then 1 fired my petronel, 
And Mortham, steed and rider, fell. 
One dying look he upward cast, 
Of wrath and anguish — 'twas his last. 
Think not that there I stopp'd, to view 
What of the battle should ensue; 
But ere I clear'd that bloody press, 
Our northern horse ran masterless ; 
j Monckton and Mitton fold the news, 
] How troops of roundheads choked the 
j Ouse, 

I And many a bonny Scot, aghast, 
j Spurring his palfrey northward, past. 






ROKEBY. 



1S5 



Cursing the day when zeal or meed 
First lured their Leslie o'er the Tweed.'' 
Yet when I reach'd the banks of Swale, 
Had rumor learn'd another tale ; 
With his barb'd horse, fresh tidings say, 
Stout Cromwell has redeem'd the day : ' 
But whether false the news, or true, 
Oswald, I reck as hght as you." 

XX. 

Not then by Wycliffe might be shown. 
How his pride startled at the tone 
In which his complice, fierce and free, 
Asserted guilt's equality. 
In smoothest terms his speech he wove, 
Of endless friendship, faith, and love ; 
Promised and vow'd in courteous sort. 
But Bertram broke professions short. 
" Wycliffe, be sure not here I stay, 
No, scarcely till the rising day ; 
Warn'd by the legends of my youth, 
I trust not an associate's truth. 
Do not my native dales prolong 
Of Percy Rede the tragic song, 
Train'd forward to his bloody fall. 
By Girsonfield, that treacherous Hall .'' >* 
Oft, by the Pringle's haunted side, 
The shepherd sees his spectre glide. 
And near the spot that gave me name. 
The moated mound of Risingham, 
Where Reed upon her margin sees 
Sweet Woodburne's cottages and trees, 
Some ancient sculptor's art has shown 
An outlaw's image on the stone ;9 
Unmatch'd in strength, a giant he. 
With quiver'd back, and kirtled knee. 
Ask how he died, that hunter bold, 
The tameless monarch of the wold, 
And age and infancy can tell, 
By brother's treachery he fell. 
Thus warn'd by legends of my youth, 
I trust to no associate's truth. 

XXI. 

" When last we reason'd of this deed. 
Nought, I bethink me, was agreed. 
Or by what rule, or when, or where. 
The wealth of Mortham we should share. 
Then list, while 1 the portion name. 
Our differing laws give each to claim. 
Thou, vassal sworn to England's throne. 
Her rules of heritage must own ; 
They deal thee, as to nearest heir. 
Thy kinsman's lands and livings fair, 
And these I yield : — do thou revere 
The statues of the Bnccanier.'" 
Friend to the sea, and foeman sworn 
To all that on her waves are borne. 



When falls a mate in battle broil. 
His comrades heir his portion'd spoil ; 
When dies in fight a daring foe. 
He claims his wealth who struck the blow; 
And either rule to me assigns 
Those spoils of Indian seas and mines. 
Hoarded in Mortham's caverns dark ; 
Ingot of gold and diamond spark. 
Chalice and plate from churches borne. 
And gems from shrieking beauty torn, 
Each string of pearl, each silver bar. 
And all the wealth of western war. 
I go to search, where, dark arid deep, 
Those Trans-atlantic treasures sleep. 
Thou must along — for, lacking thee, 
The heir will scarce find entrance free ; 
And then farewell. I haste to try 
Each varied pleasure wealth can buy ; 
When cloy'd each wish, those wars afford 
Fresh work for Bertram's restless sword." 

XXII. 

An I'ndecided answer hung 
On Oswald's hesitating tongue. 
Despite his craft, he heard with awe 
This ruffian stabber fi.x. the law ; 
While his own troubled passions veer 
Through hatred, joy, regret, and fear : — 
Joy'd at the soul that Bertram tiies. 
He grudged the murderer's mighty prize. 
Hated his pride's presumptions tone, 
And fear'd to wend with him alone. 
At length, that middle course to steer. 
To cowardice and craft so dear, 
" His charge," he said, " would ill allow 
His absence from the fortress now ; 
Wilfrid on Bertram should attend. 
His son should journey with his friend." 

XXIII. 

Contempt kept Bertram's anger down. 

And wreathed to savage smile his frown. 

'■ Wilfrid, or thou — 'tis one to me. 

Whichever bears the golden key. 

Yet think not but I mark, and smile 

To mark, thy poor and selfish wile ! 

If injury from me you fear. 

What, Oswald Wycliffe, shields thee here? 

I've sprung from walls more high than these, 

I've swam t>hrough deeper streams than 

Tee's. 
Might not I stab thee, ere one yell 
Could rouse the distant sentinel .' 
Start not — it is not my design, 
But, if it were, weak fence were thine: 
And, trust me, that, in time of need, 
This hand hath done more desperate deed. 




1 




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r86 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 


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Go, haste and rouse thy slumbering son ; 


XXVII. 




Time calls, and I must needs be gone." 


Wilfrid must love and woo the bright 




^ 


\^ XXIV. 


Matilda, heir of Rokeby's knight. J [_ 






Nought of his sire's ungenerous part 


To love her was an easy best, 






Polluted Wilfrid's gentle heart; 


The secret empress of his breast ; 






A heart too soft from early life 


To woo her was a harder task 






To hold with fortune needful strife. 


To one that durst not hope or ask. 






His sire, while yet a hardier race 


Yet all Matilda could, she gave 






Of numerous sons were Wycliffe's grace, 


In pity to her gentle slave ; 






On Wilfrid set contemptuous brand, 


Friendship, esteem, and fair regard, 






For feeble heart and forceless hand ; 


And praise, the poet's best reward 1 






But a fond mother's care and joy 
Were centred 'in her sickly boy. 


She read the tales his taste approved, 






And sung the lays he framed or loved ; 






No touch of childhood's frolic mood 


Yet, loth to nurse the fatal flame 






Show'd the elastic spring of blood ; 


Of hopeless love in friendship's name, 






Hour .after hour he loved to pour 


In kind caprice she oft withdrew 






On Shakspeare's rich and varied lore, 


The favoring glance to friendship due. 






But turn'd from martial scenes and light, 


Then grieved to see her victim's pain, 






From Falstaff's feast and Percy's fight, 


And gave the dangerous smiles again. 






To ponder Jaques' moral strain, 


XXVill. 






And muse with Hamlet, wise in vain ; 
And weep himself tc soft repose 
O'er gentle Desdemona's woes. 


So did the suit of Wilfrid stand, 

When war's loud summons waked the land 








Three banners, floating o'er the Tees, 






XXV. 


The woe-foreboding peasant sees ; 






In youth he sought not pleasures found 


In concert oft they braved of old 






By youth in horse, and hawk, and hound, 


The bordering Scot's incursion bold; 






But loved the quiet joys that wake 


Frowning defiance in their pride, 






By lonely stream and silent lake ; 


Their vassals now and lords divide. 






In Deepdale's solitude to lie, 


From his fair hall on Greta banks, 






Where all is cliff and copse and sky ; 


The Knight of Rokeby led his ranks, 






To climb Catcastle's dizzy peak, 


To aid the valiant northern Earls, 






Or lone Pendragon's mound to seek. 


Who drew the sword for royal Charles. 






Such was his wont ; and there his dream 


Mortham, by marriage near allied, — 






Soar'd on some wild fantastic theme, 


His sister had been Rokeby's bride. 






Of faithful love, or ceaseless spring. 


Though long before the civil fray, 






Till Contemplation's wearied wing 


In peaceful grave the lady lay, — 






The enthusiast could no more sustain, 


Philip of Mortham raised his band. 






And sad he sunk to earth again. 


And march'd at Fairfax's command ; 






XXVI. 


While Wycliffe, bound by many a train 
Of kindred art with wily Vane, 






He loved — as many a lay can tell, 
Preserved in IStanmore's lonely dell ; 


Less prompt to brave the bloody field. 
Made Barnard's battlements his shield, 






For his was minstrel's skill, he caught 
The art unteachable, untaught; 


Secured them with his Lunedale powers. 
And for the Commons held the towers. 






He loved — his soul did nature iframe 








For love, and fancy nursed the flame ; 


XXIX. 






Vainly he loved — for seldom swain 


The lovely heir of Rokeby's Knight 






Of such soft mould is loved again ; 


Waits in his halls the event of fight ; 






Silent he loved — in every gaze 


For England's war revered the claim 






Was passion, friendship in liis phrase. 


Of every unprotected name. 






So mused his life away — till died 


And spared, amid its fiercest rage, 






T His brethren all, their father's pride. 


Childhood and womanhood and age. f 




f 


p Wilfrid is now the only heir 


But Wilfrid, son to Rokeby's foe, ^ P 






Of all his stratagems and care, 


Must the dear privilege forego, 






And destined, darkling, to pursue 


By Greta's side, in evening gray, 






Ambition's maze by Oswald's clue. 


To steal upon Matilda's way, 




[ 


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1 







ROKEB Y 



187 



Striving, with fond hypocrisy 
For careless step and vacant eye ; 
Cahning each anxious look and glance, 
To give the meeting all to chance, 
Or framing, as a fair excuse. 
The book, the pencil, or the muse : 
Something to give, to sing, to say, 
Some modern tale, some ancient lay. 
Then, while the long'd-for minutes last, — 
Ah ! minutes quickly over-past 1 
Recording each expression free, 
Of kind or careless courtesy. 
Each friendly look, each softer tone, 
As food for fancy when alone. 
All this is o'er — bat still unseen, 
Wilfrid may lurk in Eastwood green. 
To watch Matilda's wonted round. 
While springs his heart at every sound. 
She comes 1 'tis but a passing sight, 
Yet serves to cheat his weary night ; 
She comes not — He will wait the hour, 
When her lamp lightens in the tower ; 
'Tis something yet, if, as she past, 
Her shade is o'er the lattice cast. 
" What is my life, my hope 1 " he said ; 
" Alas ! a transitory shade." 



Thus wore his life, though reason strove 
For mastery in vain with love, 
Forcing upon his thoughts the sum 
Of present woe and ills to come. 
While still he turn'd impatient ear 
From Truth's intrusive voice severe. 
Gentle, indifferent, and subdued. 
In all but this, unmoved he view'd 
Each outward change of ill and good : 
But Wilfrid, docile, soft, and mild, 
Was Fancy's spoil'd and wayward child; 
In her bright car she bade him ride. 
With one fair form to grace his side. 
Or, in some wild and lone retreat, 
Flung her high spells around his seat, 
Bathed in her dews his languid head. 
Her fairy mantle o'er him spread, 
For him her opiates gave to flow. 
Which he who tastes can ne'er forego. 
And placed him in her circle, free 
From every stem reality, 
Till, to the Visionary, seem 
Her day-dreams truth, and truth a dream. 

XXXI. 

Woe to the youth whom Fancy gains. 
Winning from Reason's hand the reins. 
Pity and woe ! for such a mind 
Is soft, contemplative, and kind; 



And -woe to those who train such youth, 
And spare to press the rights of truth, 
The mind to strengthen and anneal. 
While on the stithy glows the steel 1 
O teach him while your lessons last, 
To judge the present by the past ; 
Remind him of each wish pursued. 
How rich it glow'd with promised good ; 
Remind him of each wish enjoy'd, 
How soon his hopes possession cloy'd ! 
Tell him, we play unequal game, 
Whene'er we shoot by Fancy's aim ; 
And, ere he strip him for her race. 
Show the conditions of tlie chase. 
Two sisters by the goal are set. 
Cold Disappointment and Regret ; 
One disenchants tlie winner's eyes, 
And strips of all its worth the prize. 
While one augments its gaudy show, 
More to enhance the loser's woe. 
The victor sees his fairy gold, 
Transform'd, when won, to drossy mold, 
But still the vanquish'd mourns his loss. 
And rues, as gold, that glittering dross. 

XXXII. 

More wouldst thou know — yon tower sur- 
vey, 
Yon couch unpress'd since parting day. 
Yon untrimm'd lamp, whose yellow gleam 
Is mingling with the cold moonbeam, 
And yon thin form ! — the hectic red 
On his pale cheek unequal spread ; 
The head reclin'd, the loosen'd hair. 
The limbs relaxed, the mournful air. — 
See, he looks up ; a woeful smile 
Lightens his woe-worn cheek a while. — 
'Tis Fancy wakes some idle thought, 
To gild the ruin she has wrought ; 
For, like the bat of Indian brakes, 
Her pinions fan the wound she makes, 
And soothing thus the dreamer's pain. 
She drinks his life-blood from the vein. 
Now to the lattice turn his eyes. 
Vain hope ! to see the sun arise. 
The moon with clouds is still o'ercast. 
Still howls by fits the stormy blast ; 
Another hour must wear away. 
Ere the East kindle into day. 
And hark ! to waste that weary hoiir, 
He tries the minstrel's magic power. 

XXXIII. 

SONG. 

To the Moon. 
Hail to thy cold and clouded beam. 
Pale pilgrim of the troubled skvl 







SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Hail, though the mists that o'er thee stream 
Lend to thy brow their sullen dye ! 

How should thy pure and peaceful eye 
Untroubled view our scenes below, 

Or how a tearless beam supply 
To light a world of war and woe ! 

Fair Queen ? I will not blame thee now. 

As once by Greta's fairy side 
Each little cloud that dimm'd thy brow 

Did then an angel's beauty hide. 
And of the shades I then could chide, 

Still are the thoughts to memory dear, 
For, while a softer strain I tried. 

They hid my blush, and calm'd my fear. 

Then did I swear thy ray serene 

Was form'd to light some lonely dell, 
By two fond lovers only seen, 

Reflected from the crystal well. 
Or sleeping on the mossy cell. 

Or quivering on the lattice bright. 
Or glancing on their couch, to tell 

How swiftly wanes the summer night ! 



He starts — a step at this lone hour ! 

A voice — his father seeks the tower. 

With haggard look and troubled sense. 

Fresh from his dreadful conference. 

" Wilfrid — what, not to sleep address'd.'' 

Thou hast no cares to chase thy rest. 

Mortham has falFn on Marston-moor ; 

Bertram brings warrant to secure 

His treasures, bought by spoil and blood. 

For the State's use and public good. 

The menials will thy voice obey ; 

Let his commission have its way. 

In every point, in every word." — 

Then, in a whisper, — " Take thy sword ! 

Bertram is — what I must not tell. 

I hear his hasty step — farewell ! " 



CANTO SECOND. 
I. 

Far in the chambers of the west. 
The gale had sigh'd itself to rest ; 
The moon was cloudless now and clear, 
But pale and soon to disappear. 
The thin gray clouds wax dimly light 
On Brusleton and Houghton height : 
And the rich dale, that eastward lay, 
Waited the wakening touch of day, 
To give its woods and cultured plain. 
And towers and spires, to light again. 



But, westward, Stanmore's shapeless swell, 
And Lunedale wild, aud Kelton-fell, 
And rock-begirdled Gilmanscar, 
And Arkingarth, lay dark afar, 
While as a livelier twilight falls. 
Emerge proud Barnard's banner'd walls, 
High crown'd he sits, in dawning pale. 
The sovereign of the lovely vale. 

II. 
What prospects, from his watch-tower high 
Gleam gradual on the warder's eye 1 — 
Far sweeping to the east, he sees 
Down his deep woods the course of Tees,H 
And tracks his wanderings by the steam 
Of summer vapors from the stream ; 
And ere he paced his destined hour 
By Brackenbury's dungeon-tower. 
These silver mists shall melt away. 
And dew the woods with glittering spray, 
Then in broad lustre shall be shown 
The mighty trench of living stone, 
And each huge trunk that, from the side, 
Reclines him o'er the darksome tide. 
Where Tees, full many a fathom low, 
Wears with his rage no common foe ; 
For pebbly bank, nor sand-bed here. 
Nor clay-inound, checks his fierce career, 
Condemn'd to mine a channell'd way, 
O'er solid sheets of marble gray. 

III. 
Nor Tees alone, in dawning bright, 
Shall rush upon the ravish'd sight ; 
But many a tributary stream 
Each from his own dark dell shall gleam ; 
Staindrop, who, from her sylvan bowers, 
Salutes proud Raby's battled towers ; 
The rural brook of Egliston, 
.^nd Balder, named from Odin's son ; 
.•\nd Greta, to whose banks ere long 
We lead the lovers of the song ; 
And silver Lune, from Stanmore wild, 
And fairy Thorsgill's murmuring child, 
And last and least, but loveliest still, 
Romantic Deepdale's slender rill. 
Who in that dim-wood glen hath stray'd, 
Yet long'd for Roslin's magic glade ? 
Who, wandering there, hath sought to 

change. 
Even for that vale so stern and strange, 
Where Cartland's Crags, fantastic rent. 
Through her green copse like spires are 

sent? 
Yet, Albin, yet the praise be thine. 
Thy scenes and story to combine! 
Thou bid'st him, who by Roslin strays 
List to the deeds of other days ; 






ROKEB Y. 



'Mid Cartland's Crags thou show'st the 

cave, 
The refuge of thy champion brave ; 
Giving each rock its storied tale, 
Pouring a lay for every dale^ 
Knitting, as with a moral band, 
Thy native legends with thy land. 
To lend each scene the interest hicjli 
Which genius beams from Beauty's eye. 

IV. 

Bertram awaited not the sight 

Whicli sun-rise shows from Barnard's 

height, 
But from the towers, preventing day, 
With Wilfrid took his early way. 
While misty dawn, and moonbeam pale, 
Still mingled in the silent dale. 
By Barnard's bridge of stately stone, 
The southern bank of Tees they won ; 
Their winding path then eastward cast, 
And Egliston's gray ruins pass'd ; '- 
Each on his own deep visions bent. 
Silent and sad they onward went. 
Well may you think that Bertram's mood. 
To Wilfrid savage seem'd and rude ; 
Well may you think bold Risingham 
Held Wilfrid trivial, poor, and tame ; 
And small the intercourse, I ween, 
Such uncon£;enial souls betvveen. 



Stern Bertram shunn'd the nearer way. 
Through Rokeby's park and chase that lay. 
And, skirting high the valley's ridge. 
They cross'd by Greta's ancient bridge, 
Descending where her waters wind 
Free for a space and unconfined, 
As, 'scaped from Brignall's dark-wood glen, 
She seeks wild Mortham's deeper den. 
There, as his eye glanced o'er the mound. 
Raised by that Legion '^ long renown'd. 
Whose votive shrine asserts their claim, 
Of pious, faithful, conquering fame, 
'' Stern sons of war ! '' sad Wilfrid sigh'd, 
" Behold the boast of Roman pride ! 
What now of all your toils are known ? 
A grassy trench, a broken stone ! " — • 
This to himself ; for moral strain 
To Bertram were address'd in vain. 

VI. 

Of different mood, a deeper sigh 
Awoke, when Rokeby's turrets high '■* 
Were northward in the dawning seen 
To rear them o'er the thicket srreen. 




O then, though Spenser's self had stray'd 
Beside him through the lovely glade, 
Lending his rich luxuriant glow 
Of fancy, all its charms to show, 
Pointing the stream rejoicing free, 
As captive set at liberty. 
Flashing her sparkling waves abroad, 
And clamoring joyful on her road ; 
Pointing where, up the sunny banks, 
The trees retire in scatter'd ranks, 
Save where, advanced before the rest, 
On knoll or hillock rears his crest. 
Lonely and huge, the giant Oak, 
As champions, when their band is broke, 
Stand forth to guard the rearward post, 
The bulwark of the scatter'd host — 
All this, and more, might Spenser say, 
Yet waste in vain his magic lay, 
While Wilfrid eyed the distant tower, 
Whose lattice lights Matilda's bower. 



The open vale is soon passed o'er, 

Rokeby, though nigh, is seen no more ; 

Sinking 'mid Greta's thickets deep, 

A wild and darker course they keep, 

k stern and lone, yet lovely road. 

As e'er the foot of Minstrel trode ! '5 

Broad shadows o'er their passage fell. 

Deeper and narrower grew the dell ; 

It seem'd some mountain, rent and riven, 

A channel for the stream had given, 

So high the cliffs of limestone gray 

Hung beetling o'er the torrent's way, 

Yielding, along their rugged base, 

A flinty footpath's niggard space. 

Where he, who winds 'twixt rock and wave 

May hear the headlong torrent rave, 

And like a steed in frantic fit. 

That flings the froth from curb and bit. 

May view her chafe her waves to spray, 

O'er every rock that bars her way. 

Till foam-globes on her eddies ride, 

Tnick as the schemes of human pride 

That down life's current drive amain, 

As frail, as frothy, and as vain ! 

VIII. 

The cliffs that rear their haughty head 
Higli o'er the river's darksome bed, 
Were now all naked, wild, and gray, 
Now waving all with greenwood spray; 
Here trees to every crevice clung. 
And o'er the dell their branches hung j 
And there, all splinter'd and uneven, 
The shiver'd rocks ascend to heaven ; 
Oft, too, the ivy swath'd their breast. 
And wreathed its garland round their crest. 







190 



SCOTT'S POETICAL IVORA'S. 



Or from the spires bade loosely flare 
Its tendrils in the middle air. 
As pennons wont to wave of old 
O'er the high feast of Baron bold, 
When revell'd loud the feudal rout, 
And the arch'd halls return'd their shout ; 
Such and more wild is Greta's roar. 
And such the echoes from her shore. 
And so the ivied banners' gleam, 
Waved wildly o'er the brawling stream. 



Now from the stream the rocks recede, 

But leave between no sunny mead, 

No, nor the spot of pebbly sand, 

Oft found by such a mountain strand ; 

Forming such warm and dry retreat, 

As fancy deems the lonely seat. 

Where hermit wandering from his cell, 

His rosai-y might love to tell. 

But here, 'twixt rock and river, grew 

A dismal grove of sable yew, 

With whose sad tints were mingled seen 

Tlie blighted fir's sepulchral green. 

Seem'd that the trees their shadows cast, 

The earth that nourish'd them to blast ; 

For never knew that swarthy grove 

The verdant hue that fairies love ; 

Nor wilding green, nor woodland flower, 

Arose within its baleful bower : 

The dank and sable earth receives 

Its only carpet from the leaves. 

That, from the withering branches cast, 

Bestrew'd the ground with every blast. 

Though now the sun was o'er the hill. 

In this dark spot 'twas twilight still. 

Save that on Greta's farther side 

Some straggling beams through copsewood 

glide ; 
And wild and savage contrast made 
That dingle's deep and funeral shade. 
With the bright tints of early day, 
Whicli, glimmering through the ivy spray. 
On the opposing summit lay. 

X. 

The lated peasant shunn'd the dell ; 

For Superstition wont to tell 

Of many a grisly sound and sight. 

Scaring its path at dead of night. 

When Christmas logs blaze high and wide. 

Such wonders speed the festal tide ; 

While Curiosity and Fear, 

Pleasure and Pain, sit crouching near, 

Till childhood's cheek no longer glows, 

And village maidens lose the rose. 



The thrilling interest rises higiaer. 

The circle closes nigh and nigher, 

And shuddering glance is cast behind, 

As louder moans the wintry wind. 

Believe, that fitting scene was laid 

For suclr wild tales in Mortham glade ; 

For who had seen, on Greta's side, 

By that dim light fierce Bertram stride, 

In such a spot, at such an liour, — 

If touch'd by .Superstition's power, 

Might well have deem'd that Hell had 

given 
A murderer's ghost to upper Heaven, 
While Wilfrid's form had seem'd to glide 
Like his pale victim by his side. 

XI. 

Nor think to village swains alone 
Are these unearthly terrors known ; 
For not to rank nor sex confined 
Is this vain ague of the mind : 
Hearts firm as steel, as marble hard, 
'Gainst faith, and love, and pity barr'd, 
Have quaked, like aspen leaves in May, 
Beneath its universal sway. 
Bertram had listed many a tale 
Of wonder in his native dale, 
That in his secret soul retain'd 
The credence tiiey in childhood gain'd: 
Nor less his wild adventurous youth 
Believed in every legend's truth ; 
Learn'd when, beneath the tropic gale, 
Full swell'd the vessel's steady sail, 
.And the broad Indian moon her light 
Pour'd on the watch of middle night, 
When seamen love to hear and tell 
Of portent, prodigy, and spell : 
What gales are sold on Lapland's shore, 
How whistle rasli bids tempests roar,'^ 
Of witch, of mermaid, and of sprite. 
Of Erick's cap and Elino's light; ''' 
Or of that Phantom Ship, whose torm 
.Shoots like a meteor through the storm ; 
When the dark scud comes driving hard 
And lower'd is every topsail yard. 
And canvas, wove in earthly looms. 
No more to brave the storm presumes ! 
Then 'mid the war of sea and sky, 
Top and top-gallant hoisted high. 
Full spread and crowded every sail, 
The Demon Frigate braves the gale ; '* 
.A.nd well the doom'd spectators know 
The harbinger of wreck and woe. 



Then, too, were told, in stifled tone, 
Marvels and omens all their own ; 






ROKEBY. 



191 



How, by some desert isle or key,'? 
Where Spaniards wrought their cruelty, 
Or where the savage pirate's snood 
Repaid it home in deeds of blood, 
Strange nightly sounds of woe and fear 
AppalI'd the listening Buccanier, 
Whose light-arm'd shallop anchor'd lay 
In ambush by the lonely bay. 
The groan of grief, the shriek of pain. 
Ring from the moonlight groves of cane ; 
The fierce adventurer's heart they scare, 
Who wearies memory for a prayer, 
Curses the road-stead, and with gale 
Of early morning lifts the sail. 
To give, in thirst of blood and prey, 
A legend for another bay. 

xni. 
Thus, as a man, a youth, a child, 
Train'd in the mystic and the wild, 
With this on Bertram's soul at times 
Rush'd a dark feeling of liis crimes •, 
Such to his troubled soul their form, 
As the pale Death-ship to the storm. 
And such their omen dun and dread, 
As shrieks and voices of the dead. — 
That pang, whose transitory force 
Hover'd 'twixt horror and remorse ; 
That pang, perchance, his bosom press'd. 
As Wilfrid sudden he address'd : — 
" Wilfrid, this glen is never trode 
Until the sun rides high abroad ; 
Yet twice have I beheld to-day 
A Form, that seem'd to dog our way ; 
Twice from my glance it seem'd to flee, 
And shroud itself by cliff or tree. 
How think'st thou ? — Is our path way-laid ? 
Or hath thy sire my trust betrayed ? 
If so " — Ere, starting from his dream, 
That turn'd upon a gentler theme, 
Wilfrid had roused him to reply, 
Bertram sprung forward, shouting high, 
" Whate'er thou art, thou now shalt 

stand ! " 
And forth he darted, sword in hand. 



As bursts the levin, in his wrath 

He shot him down the sounding path ; 

Rock, wood, and stream, rang wildly out. 

To his loud step and savage shout. 

Seems that the object of his race 

Hath scaled the cliffs ; his frantic chase 

Sidelong he turns, and now 'tis bent 

Right up the rock's tall battlement ; 

Straining each sinew to ascend, 

Foot, hand, and knee, their aid must lend. 



Wilfrid, all dizzy with dismay. 
Views from beneath his dreadful way : 
Now to the oak's warp'd roots he clings, 
Now trusts his weight to ivy strings ; 
Now, like the wild-goat, must he dare 
An unsupported leap in air ; 
Hid in the shrubby rain-course now, 
You mark him by the crashing bough, 
And by his corslet's sullen clank. 
And by the stones spurn'd from the bank. 
And by the hawk scared from her nest. 
And ravens croaking o'er their guest, 
Who deem his forfeit limbs shall pa> 
The tribute of his bold essay. 

XV. 

See ! he emerges — desperate now 

All farther course — Yon beetling brow^ 

In cragged nakedness sublime, 

What heart or foot shall dare to climb i 

It bears no tendril for his clasp. 

Presents no angle for his grasp : 

Sole stay his foot may rest upon, 

Is yon earth-bedded jstting stone. 

Balanced on such precarious prop. 

He strains his grasp to reach the top. 

Just as the dangerous stretch he makes. 

By Heaven, his faithless footstool shakes 1 

Beneath his tottering bulk it bends. 

It sways, * * it loosens, * * it descends! 

And downward holds its headlong way. 

Crashing o'er rock and copswoode spray. 

Loud thunders shake the echoing dell ! — 

Fell it alone? — alone it fell. 

Just on the very verge of fate. 

The hardy Bertram's falling weight 

He trusted to his sinewy hands. 

And on the top imharm'd he stands 1 — 

XVI. 
Wilfrid a safer path pursued ; 
At intervals where, roughly hew'd. 
Rude steps ascending from the dell 
Render'd the cliffs accessible. 
By circuit slow he thus attain'd 
The height that Risingham had gain'd, 
And when he issued from the wood, 
Before the gate of Mortham stoodo^° 
'Twas a fair scene ! the sunbeam lay 
On battled tower and portal gray : 
And from the grassy slope he sees 
The Greta flow to meet the Tees ; 
Where, issuing from her darksome bed 
She caught the eastern morning's red. 
And through the softening vale below 
RoU'd her bright waves in rosy glow, 
All blushing to her bridal bed, 
Like some shy maid in convent bred ; 



M 




192 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



While linnet, lark, and blackbird gay, 
Sing forth her nuptial roundelay. 

xvii. 
Twas sweetly sung that roundelay ; 
That summer morn shone bright and gay ; 
But morning beam, and wild-bird's call, 
Awaked not Mortham's silent hall. 
No porter, by the low-brov/'d gate, 
Took in the wonted niche his seat ; 
To the paved court no peasant drew ; 
Waked to their toil no menial crew ; 
The maiden's carol was not heard, 
As to her morning taisk she fared : 
In the void offices around, 
Rung not a hoof, nor bay'd a hound ; 
Nor eager steed, with shrilling neigh. 
Accused the lagging groom's delay ; 
Untrimm'd, undress'd, neglected now. 
Was alley' d walk and orchard bough ■, 
All spoke the master's absent care, 
All spoke neglect and disrepair. 
South of the gate an arrow flight. 
Two mighty elms their limbs unite. 
As if a canopy to spread 
O'er the lone dwelling of the dead ; 
For their huge boughs in arches bent 
Above a massive monument, 
Carv'd o'er in ancient Gothic wise. 
With many a scutcheon and device ; 
There, spent with toil and sunk in gloom, 
Bertram stood pondering by the tomb. 

XVIII. 
" It vanish'd, like a flitting ghost ! 
Behind this tomb," he said, " 'twas lost — 
This tomb, where oft I deem'd lies stored 
Of Mortham's Indian wealth the hoard. 
'Tis true, the aged servants said 
Here liis lamented wife is laid ; 
But weightier reasons may be guess'd 
For their lord's strict and stern behest, 
That none should on his steps intrude. 
Whene'er he sought this solitude. — 
An ancient mariner I knew. 
What time I sail'd with Morgan's crew. 
Who oft, 'mid our carousals, spake 
Of Raleigh, Frobisher, and Drake : 
Adventurous hearts ! who barter'd 'oold. 
Their English steel for Spanish gold. 
Trust not, would his experience say. 
Captain or comrade with your prey ; 
But seek some channel, when, at full. 
The moon gilds skeleton and skull : 
There dig, and tomb your precious heap, 
And bid the dead your treasure keep ; -' 
Sure stewards they, if fittmg spell 
Their service to the task compel. 



Lacks there such charnel ? — kill a slave, 
Or prisoner, on the treasure-grave ; 
And bid his discontented ghost 
Stalk nigiitly on his lonely post. — 
Such was his tale. Its truth, I weeti, 
Is in my morning vision seen." 

XIX 

Wilfrid, who scorn 'd the legend wild. 

In mingled mirth and pity smiled. 

Much marvelling that a breast so bold 

In such fond tale belief should hold ; 

But yet of Bertram sought to know 

The apparition's form and show. — 

The power within the guilty 'oreast. 

Oft vanquish'd, never quite suppress'd, 

That unsubdued and lurking lies 

To take the felon by surprise, 

And force him, as by magic spell, 

In his despite his guilt to tell,-- — 

That power in Bertram's breast awoke ; 

Scarce conscious he was heard, he spoke . 

"'Twas Mortham's form, from foot to 

head ! 
His morion, with the plume of red, 
His shape, his mien — 'twas Mortham, right 
As when I slew him in the fight." — 
" Thou slay him ? — thou .' " — With con- 
scious start 
He heard, then mann'd his haughty heart — 
" I slew him ? — 1 1 — I had forgot 
Thru, stripling, knew'st not of the plot. 
But it is spoken — nor will I 
Deed done, or spoken word, deny. 
I slew him ; I ! for thankless pride ; 
'Twas by this hand that Mortham died." 

XX. 

Wilfrid, of gentle hand and heart. 

Averse to every active part. 

But most averse to martial broil. 

From danger shrank, and turn'd from toil, 

Yet the meek lover of the lyre 

Nursed one brave spark of noble fire, 

Against injustice, fraud, or wrong. 

His blood beat high, his hand wax'd strong 

Not his the nerves that could sustain 

Unshaken, danger, toil, and pain ; 

But, when that spark blazed forth to flame 

He rose superior to his frame. 

And now it came, that generous mood : 

And, in full current of his blood, 

On Bertram he laid desperate hand. 

Placed firm his foot, and drew his brand. 

" Should every fiend, to whom thou'rt sold, 

Rise in thine aid, I keep my hold.— 

Arouse there, ho ! take spear and sword ! 

Attach the murderer of your Lord ! "' 











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ROKEB Y. 193 






XXI. 


XXIII. 




A moment, fix'd as by a spell, 


Still rung these words in Wilfrid's ear, 






"-' ^ Stood Bertram — It seem'd miracle, 


Hinting he knew not what of fear ; J 


, 




That one so feeble, soft, and tame 


When nearer came the coursers' tread, 






Set grasp on warlike Risingham. 


And, with his father at their head, 






But when he felt a feeble stroke, 


Of horsemen arm'd a gallant power 






The fiend within the ruffian woke! 


Rein'd up their steeds before the tower. 






To wrench the sword from Wilfrid's hand, 


"Whence these pale looks, my son?" he 






To dash him headlong on the sand, 


said : 






Was but one moment's work, — one more 


"Where's Bertram ? — Why that naked 






Had drench'd the blade in Wilfrid's gore ; 


blade?" 






But, in the instant it arose, 


Wilfrid ambiguously replied. 






To end his life, his love, his woes, 


(For Mortham's charge his honor tied,) 






A warlike form, that mark'd the scene. 


" Bertram is gone — the villain's word 






Presents his rapier sheathed between. 


Avouch'd him murderer of his lord ! 






Parries the fast-descending blow. 


Even now we fought — but, when your tread 






And steps 'twixt Wilfrid and his foe; 


Announced you nigh, the felon fied." 






Nor then unscabbarded his brand. 


In Wycliffe's conscious eye appear 






But, sternly pointing with his hand. 


A guilty hope, a guilty fear ; 






With monarch's voice forbade the fight. 


On his pale brow the dewdrop broke, 






And motion'd Bertram from his sight. 


And his lip quiver'd as he spoke : — 






" Go, and repent,'' he said, '' while time 


XXIV. 






Is given thee ; add not crime to crime." 








" A murderer ! — Philip Mortham died 








Amid the battle's wildest tide. 






XXII . 


Wilfrid, or Bertram raves, or you ! 
Yet, grant such strange confession true, 






Mute, and uncertain, and amazed, 


Pursuit were vain — let him fly far — 






As on a vision Bertram gazed ! 


Justice must sleep in civil war." 






'Twas Mortham's bearing, bold and high, 


A gallant Youth rode near his side, 






His sinewy frame, his falcon eye, 


Brave Rokeby's page, in battle tried ; 






His look and accent of command. 


That morn, an embassy of weight 






The martial gesture of his hand. 


He brought to Barnard's castle gate, 






His stately form, spare-built and tall. 


And follow'd now in W\xliffe's train, 






His war-bleach'd locks — 'twas Morthamall. 


An answer for his lord to gain. 






Through Bertram's dizzy brain career 


His steed, whose arch"d and sable neck 






A thousand thoughts, and all of fear ; 


An hundred wreaths of foam bedeck. 






His wavering faith received not cjuite 


Chafed not against the curb more high 






The form he saw as Mortham's sprite, 


Than he at Oswald's cold reply ; 






But more he fear'd it, if it stood 


He bit his lip, implored his saint. 






His lord, in living flesh and blood. — 


(His the old faith) — then burst restraint. 






What spectre can the charnel send, 








So dreadful as an injured friend? 


XXV. 






Then, too, the habit of command, 


" Yes ! I beheld his bloody fall 






Used by the leader of the band, 


By that base traitor's dastard ball. 






When Risingham, for many a day. 


Just when I thought to measure sword, 






Had march'd and fought beneath his sway, 


Presumptuous hope ! with J\Iortl\am's lord. » 






Tamed him — and, with reverted face. 


And shall the murderer 'scape, who slew 






Backwards he bore his sullen pace ; 


His leader, generous, brave, and true? 






Oft stopp'd, and oft on Mortham stared. 


Escape, while on the dew you trace 






And dark as rated mastiff glared ; 


The marks of liis gigantic pace ? 






. But when the tramp of steeds was heard. 


No ! ere the sun that dew shall dry, 






r» Plunged in the glen, and disappear'd ; — 


False Risingham shall yield or die. — j, ^ 






Nor longer there the warrior stood, 


Ring out the castle 'larum bell ! 






Retiring eastward through the wood ; 


Arouse the peasants with the knell ! 






But first to Wilfrid warning gives, 


Meantime disperse — ride, gallants, ride ! 






" Tell thou to none that Mortham lives." 


Beset the wood on every side. 






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But if among you one there be, 
That honors Mortham's memory, 
Let him dismount and follow me ! 
Else on your crests sit fear and shame, 
And foul suspicion dog your name 1 " 



Instant to earth young Redmond sprung ; 
Instant on earth the harness rung 
Of twenty men of Wycliffe's band, 
Who waited not their lord's command. 
Redmond his spurs from buskins drew. 
His mantle from his shoulders threw. 
His pistols in his belt he placed. 
The green-wood gain'd, the footsteps 

traced, 
Shouted like huntsman to his hounds, 
" To cover, hark ! " — and in he bounds. 
Scarce heard was Oswald's anxious cry 
" .Suspicion 1 yes — pursue him, fly — 
But venture not, in useless strife, 
On ruffian desperate of his life. 
Whoever finds him, shoot him dead ! 
Five hundred nobles for his head ! " 



The horsemen gallop'd, to make good 

Each path that issued from the wood. 

Loud from the thickets rung the shout 

Of Redmond and his eager rout ! 

With them was Wilfrid, stung with ire, 

And envying Redmond's martial fire, 

And emulous of fame. — But where 

Is Oswald, noble Mortham's heir ? 

He, bound by honor, law, and faith. 

Avenger of his kinsman's death ? — 

Leaning against the elmin tree, 

With drooping head and slacken'd knee. 

And clenched teeth, and close-clasp'd hand? 

In agony of soul he stands ! 

His downcast eye on earth is bent. 

His soul to every sound is lent ; 

For in each shout that cleaves the air, 

May ring discovery and despair. 

XXVIII. 

What 'vail'd it him, that brightly play'd 
The morning sun on Mortham's glade ? 
All seems in giddy round to ride. 
Like objects on a stormy tide, 
Seen eddying by the moonlight dim^ 
Imperfectly to sink and sw^im. 
What 'vaird it, that the fair domain. 
Its battled mansion, hill, and plain. 
On which the sun so brightly shone. 
Envied so long, was now his own .-' 
The lowest dungeon, in that hour, 
Of Brackenbury's dismal tower,-' 



Had been his choice, could such a doom 
Have open'd Mortham's bloody tomb I 
Forced, too, to turn unwilling ear 
To each surmise of hope or fear, 
Murmur'd among the rustics round, 
Who gather'd at the 'larum sound ; 
He dared not turn his liead away. 
E'en to look up to heaven to pray. 
Or call on hell in bitter mood, 
For one sharp death-shot from the wood ! 



At length, o'erpast that dreadful space. 
Back straggling came the scatter'd chase: 
Jaded and weary, horse and man, 
Return'd the troopers one by one. 
Wilfrid, the last, arrived to say, 
All trace was lost of Bertram's way. 
Though Redmond still, up Brignall wood 
The hopeless quest in vain pursued. — 
O, fatal doom of human race ! 
What tyrant passions passions chase ! 
Remorse from Oswald's brow is gone. 
Avarice and pride resume their throne ; 
The pang of instant terror by. 
They dictate thus their slave's reply :^ 

XXX. 

" Ay — let him range like hasty hound ! 

And if the grim wolf's lair be founc", 

Small is my care how goes the game 

With Redmond or with Risingham. — 

Nay, answer not, thou simple boy 1 

Thy fair Matilda, all so coy 

To thee, is of another mood 

To that bold youth of Erin's blood. 

Thv ditties will she freely praise, 

And pay thy pains with courtly phrase ; 

In a rough path will oft command — 

Accept at least — thy friendly hand; 

His she avoids, or, urged and pray'd. 

Unwilling takes his proffer'd aid. 

While conscious passion plainly speaks 

In downcast look and blushing cheeks. 

Whene'er he sings, will she glide nigh, 

And all her soul is in her eye ; 

Yet doubts she still to tender free 

The wonted words of courtesy. 

These are strong signs ! — yet wherefore 

sigh. 
And wipe, effeminate, thine eye ? 
Thine shall she be, if thou attend 
The counsels of thy sire and friend. 

XXXI. 

" Scarce wert thou gone, when peep or 

light 
Brought genuine news of Marston's fight. 



ROKEB y. 



195 



Brave Cromwell turn'd the doubtful tide, 

And conquest bless'd the rightful side ; 

Three thousand cavaliers lie dead, 

Rupert and that bold Marquis fled ; 

Nobles and knights, so proud of late, 

Must fine for freedom and estate. 

Of these, committed to my charge, 

Is Rokeby, prisoner at large ; 

Redmond, his page, arrived to say 

He reaches Barnard's towers to-day. 

Right heavy shall his ransom be, 

Unless that maid compound witli thee ! -* 

Go to her now — be bold of cheer. 

While her soul floats 'twixt hope and fear; 

It is the very change of tide, 

When best the female heart is tried — 

Pride, prejudice, and modesty, 

Are in the current swept to sea ; 

And the bold swain, who plies his oar, 

May lightly row his bark to shore." 



CANTO THIRD. 



The hunting tribes of air and earth 
Respect the brethren of their birth ; 
Nature, who loves the claim of kind, 
Less cruel chase to each assign'd. 
The falcon, poised on soaring wing. 
Watches the wild-duck by the spring; 
The slow-hound wakes the fox's lair ; 
The grayhound presses on the hare ; 
The eagle pounces on the lamb ; 
The wolf devours the fleecy dam : 
Even tiger fell, and sullen bear, 
Their likeness and their lineage spare ; 
Man, only, .mars kind Nature's plan. 
And turns the fierce pursuit on man ; 
Plying war's desultory trade. 
Incursion, flight, and ambuscade. 
Since Nimrod, Cush's mighty son, 
At first the bloody game begun. 

n. 
The Indian, prowling for his prey. 
Who hears the settlers track his way,^' 
.\nd knows in distant forest far 
Camp his red brethren of the war ; 
He, when each double and disguise 
To baffle the pursuit he tries. 
Low crouching now his head to hide. 
Where swampy streams through rushes 

glide. 
Now covering with the wither'd leaves 
The foot-prints that the dew receives : 



He, skill'd in every sylvan guile, 
Knows not, nor tries, such various wile, 
As Risingham, when on the wind 
Arose the loud pursuit behind. 
In Redesdale his youth had lieard 
Each art her wily dalesmen dared. 
When Rooken-edge, and Redswair high, 
To bugle rung and blood-hound's cry,^ 
Announcing jedwood-axe and spear, 
And Lid'sclale riders in the rear , 
And well his venturous life had proved 
The lessons that his childhood loved. 



Oft had he shown in climes afar. 
Each attribute of roving war ; 
The siiarpen'd ear, the piercing eye. 
The quick resolve in danger nigh; 
The speed, that in the flight or ciiase, 
Outstripped the Charib's rapid race ; 
The steady brain, the sinewy limb. 
To leap, to climb, to dive, to swim ; 
The iron frame, inured to bear 
Each dire inclemency of air. 
Nor less confirm'd to undergo 
Fatigue's faint chill, and famine's throe. 
Tliesearts he proved, his life to save, 
In peril oft by land and wave. 
On Arawaca's desert shore. 
Or where La Plata's billows roar, 
When oft the sons of vengeful Spain 
Track'd the marauder's steps in vain. 
These arts, in Indian warfare tried. 
Must save him now by Greta's side. 



'Twas then, in hour of utmost need. 
He proved his courage, art, and speed. 
Now slow he stalk'd with stealthy pace, 
Now started forth in rapid race. 
Oft doubling back in mazy train, 
To blind the trace the dews retain ; 
Now clomb the rocks projecting high, 
To baffle the pursuer's eye ; 
Now sought the stream, whose brawling 

sound 
The echo of his footsteps drown'd 
But if the forest verge he near.i, 
There trample steeds, and glimmer spears 
If deeper down the copse he drew, 
He heard the rangers' loud halloo. 
Beating each cover while they came, 
As if to start the sylvan game. 
'Twas then — like tiger close beset 
At every pass with toil and net, 
'Counter'd, where'er he turns his glare, 
By clashing arms and torches' flare. 






^ 



196 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Who meditates, with furious bound, 
To burst on hunter, horse, and hourd, — 
'Twas then that Bertram's soul arose. 
Prompting to rush upon his foes : 
r>ut as that crouching tiger, cow'd 
Hv brandish' d steel and shouting crowd, 
Retreats beneath the jungle's shroud, 
Bertram suspends his purpose stern. 
And couches in the brake and fern, 
Hiding his face, lest foemen spy, 
The sparkle of his swarthy eye.^' 



Then Bertram might the bearing trace 
Of the bold youth who led the chase ; 
Who paused to list for every sound, 
Climb every height to look around. 
Then rushing on with naked sword, 
Eaclr dingle's bosky depths explored. 
'Twas Redmond — by the azure eye ; 
'Twas Redmond — by the locks that fly 
Disorder'd from his glowing cheek ; 
Mien, face, and fonn, young Redmond 

speak. 
A form more active, light, and strong. 
Ne'er shot Mie ranks of war along ; 
The modest, yet the manly mien. 
Might grace the court of maiden queen . 
A face more fair you well miglit find, 
For Redmond's knew the sun and wind, 
Nor boasted, from their tinge when free, 
The charm of regularity ; 
But every feature had the power 
To aid the expression of the hour : 
Whether gay wit, and humor sly, 
Danced laughing in his Hght-blue eye ; 
Or bended brow, and glance of fire. 
And kindling cheek, spoke Erin's ire ; 
Or soft and sadden'd glances show 
Her ready sympathy with woe ; 
Or in that wayward mood of mind, 
When various feelings are combined. 
When joy and sorrow mingle near, 
And hope's bright wings are check'd by 

fear. 
And rising doubts keep transport down. 
And anger lends a short-lived frown ; 
In that strange mood whicli maids approve 
Even when they dare not call it love ; 
With every change his features play'd 
As aspens show the light and shade. 



Well Risingham young Redmond knew : 
And much he marvell'd that the crew. 
Roused to revenge bold Mortham dead. 
Were by that Mortham's foeman led ; 



For never felt his soul the woe. 
That wails a generous foeman low. 
Far less that sense of justice strong, 
That wreaks a generous foeman's wrong. 
But small his leisure now to pause ; 
Redmond is first, whate'er the cause: 
And twice that Redmond came so near 
Where Bertram couch'd like hunted deer 
The very boughs his steps displace. 
Rustled against the ruffian's face. 
Who, desperate, twice prepared to start, 
And plunge his dagger in his heart ! 
But Redmond turn'd a different way. 
And the bent boughs resumed their sway. 
And Bertram held it wise, unseen. 
Deeper to plunge in coppice green. 
Thus, circled in his coil, the snake. 
When roving hunters beat the brake, 
Watches with red and glistening eye. 
Prepared, if heedless step draw nigh. 
With forked tongue and venom' d fang 
Instant to dart the deadly pang; 
But if tlie intruders turn aside. 
Away his coils imfolded glide, 
And through the deep savannah wind, 
Some undisturb'd retreat to find. 

VII. 

But Bertram, as he backward drew, 
And heard the loud pursuit renew, 
And Redmond's hollo on the wind. 
Oft mutter'd in his savage mind — 
" Redmond O'Neale ! were thou and I 
Alone this day's event to try. 
With not a second here to see. 
But the gray cliff and oaken ti-ee, — 
That voice of thine, that shouts so loud, 
Should ne'er repeat its summons proud! 
Xo ! nor e'er try its melting power 
Again in maiden's summer bower." 
Eluded, now behind him die, 
P'aint and more faint, each hostile cry ; 
He stands in Scargill wood alone, 
Nor hears he now a harsher tone 
Than the hoarse cushat's plaintive cry. 
Or Greta's sound that murmurs by, 
.And on the dale, so lone and wild, 
The summer sun in quiet smiled. 

vni. 
He listen'd long with anxious heart, 
Ear bent to hear, and foot to start. 
And, while his stretch'd attention glows, 
Refused his weary frame repose. 
'Twas silence all — he laid him down, 
Where purple heath profusely strown, 
.\nd throatwort, with its azure bell. 
And moss and thyme his cushion swell. 




1 






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ROKEBY. 197 






There, spent w'th toil, he listless eyed 


Or had he seen, in vision true, 




The course of Greta's playful tide ; 


That very Mortham whom he sle^- ? 






Beneath, her banks now eddying dun, 


Or had in living .iesh appear'd 




' 


^ Now brightly gleaming to the sun, 


The only man on earth he f ear'd ? — 






As, dancing over roc^^ and stone, 


To try the mystic cause intent. 






In yellow light her currents shone, 


His eyes, that on the cliff were bent, 






Matching in hue the favorite gem 


'Counter'd at once a dazzling glance, 






Of Albin's mountain-diadem. 


Like sunbeam flash'd from sword or lance, 






Then, tired to watch the current's play, 


At once he started as for fight. 






He turn'd his weary eyes away. 


But not a foeman was in sight : 






To where the bank opposing show'd 


He heard the cushat's murmur hoarse, 






Its huge, square cliffs through shaggy wood. 


He heard the river's sounding course; 






One, prominent above the rest. 


The solitary woodlands lay. 






Rear'd to the sun his pale gray breast ; 


As slumbering in the summer ray. 






Around its broken summit grew 


He gazed, like lion roused, around, 






The hazel rude and sable yew ; 


Then sunk again upon the ground. 






A thousand varied lichens dyed 


'Twas but, he thought, some fitful beam, 






Its waste and weather-beaten side, 


Glanced sudden from the sparkling 






And round its rugged basis lay, 


stream ; 






By time or thunder rent away, 


Then plunged him from his gloomy train 






Fragments, that, from its frontlet torn. 


Of ill-connected thoughts again. 






Were mantled now by verdant thorn. 


Until a voice behind him cried. 






Such was the scene's wild majesty, 


" Bertram I well met on Greta side." 






That fill'd stern Bertram's gazing eye. 


XI. 






IX. 


Instant his sword was in his hand, 






In sullen mood he lay reclined, 


As instant sunk the ready brand ; 






Revolving, in his stormy mind, 


Yet, dubious still, opposed he stood 
To him that itsued from the wood : 






The felon deed, the fruitless guilt. 






His patron's blood by treason spilt ; 


" Guy Denzil ! — is it thou ? " he said ; 






A crime, it seem'd, so dire and dread, 


" Do we two meet in Scargill shade i" — 






That it had power to wake the dead. 


Stand back a space ! — thy purpose show, 






Then, pondering on his life betray'd 


Whether thou com'st as friend or foe. 






By Oswald's art to Redmond's blade, 


Report hath said, that Denzil's name 






In treacherous purpose to withhold, 


From Rokeby's band was razed with 






So seem'd it, Mortham's promised gold, 


sliame." — 






A deep and full revenge he vow'd 


" A shame I owe that hot O'Neale, 






On Redmond, forward, fierce, and proud ; 


Who told his knight, in peevish zeal, 






Revenge on Wilfrid— on his sire 


Of my marauding on the clowns 






Redoubled vengeance, swift and dire ! — 


Of Calverley and Bradford downs ^9 






If, in such mood (as legends say. 


I reck not. In a war to strive. 






And well believed that simple day), 


Where, save the leaders, none can thrive. 






The Enemy of man has power 


Suits ill my mood ; and better game 






To profit by the evil hour. 


.Awaits us both, if thou'rt the same 






Here stood a wretch, prepared to change 


Unscrupulous, bold Risingham, 






His soul's redemption for revenge 1 ^^ 


Who watch'd with me in midnight dark 






But though his vows, with such a lire 


To snatch a deer from Rokeby-park. 






Of earnest and intense desire 


How think'st thou 1 " — " Speak thy pur- 






For vengeance dark and fell, were made. 


pose out ; 
I love not mystery or doubt." — 






As well might retch hell's lowest shade. 






No deeper clouds the grove embrown'd, 








No nether thunders shook the ground ; — 


XII. 






The demon knew his vassal's heart. 


" Then, list. — Not far there lurk a crew 






f* And spared temptation's needless art. 


Of trusty comrades, stanch and true. 


"» 




X. 


Glean'd from both factions — Roundheads. 






Oft, mingled with the direful theme. 


freed 






Came Mortham's form — Was it a dream ? 


From cant of sermon and of creed ; 




t 


.t 


AL 


i 




1 • / 


c 3 


C 1 1 


\v 




vi - 




-. ^>/ 




b 1 ^ 


1 




igS 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And Cavaliers, whose souls, like mine, 

Spurn at the bonds of discipline. 

Wiser, we judge, by dale and wold, 

A warfare of our own to hold. 

Than breathe our last on battle-down. 

For cloak or surplice, mace or crown. 

Our schemes are laid, our purpose set, 

A chief and leader lack wc yet. — 

Thou art a wanderer, it is said ; 

For Mortham's death, thy steps way-laid, 

Thy head at price — so say our spies. 

Who range the valley in disguise. 

Join then with us : — though wild debate 

And wrangling rend our infant state. 

Each to an equal lotli to bow, 

Will yield to chief renuwn'd as thou."^ 



" Even now," thought Bertram, passion- 

stirr'd, 
" I call'd on hell, and hell has heard ! 
What lack I, vengeance to command, 
But of stanch comrades such a band? 
This Denzil, vow'd to every evil. 
Might read a lesson to the devil. 
Well, be it so ! each knave and fool 
Shall serve as my revenge's tool."' — 
Aloud, " I take thy proffer, Guy, 
But tell me where thy comrades lie? " 
^' Not far from hence," Guy Denzil said; 
^ Descend, and cross the river's bed, 
Where rises yonder cliff so gray." 
" Do thou," said Bertram, "lead the way." 
Then mutter'd, " It is best make sure ; 
Guy Denzil's faith was never pure." 
He follow'd down the steep descent, 
Then through the Greta's streams they 

went ; 
And, when they reach'd the farther shore. 
They stood the lonely cliff before. 



With wonder Bertram heard within 
The flinty rock a murmur'd din ; 
But when Guy pull'd the wilding spray, 
And brambles, from its base away. 
He saw, appearing to the air, 
A little entrance, low and square. 
Like opening cell of hermit lone. 
Dark, winding through the living stone. 
Here enter'd Denzil, Bertram here ; 
And loud and louder on their ear. 
As from the bowels of the earth, 
Resounded shouts of boisterous mirth. 
Of old, the cavern strait and rude, 
In slaty rock the peasant hew'd; 



And Brignall's woods, and Scargill's 

wave, 
E'en now, o'er many a sister cave,^° 
Where, far within the darksome rift. 
The wedge and lever ply their thrift. 
But war had silenced rural trade. 
And the deserted mine was made 
The banquet-hall and fortress too, 
Of Denzil and his desperate crew. — 
There Guilt his anxious reve. kept; 
There, on his sordid pallet, slept 
Guilt-horn Excess, the goblet drain'd 
Still in his slumbering grasp retain'd ; 
Regret was there, his eye still cast 
With vain repining on the past ; 
Among the feasters waited near 
Sorrow, and unrepentant Fear, 
And Blasphemy, to frenzy driven. 
With his own crimes reproaching heaven ; 
While Bertram show'd, amid the crew. 
The Master-Fiend that MUton drew. 

XV. 

Hark ! the loud revel wakes again, 

To greet the leader of the train. 

Behold the group by the pale lamp, 

That struggles with the earthy damp. 

By what strange features Vice hath known, 

To single out and mark her own ! 

Yet some there are, whose brows retain 

Less deeply stamp'd her brand and stain. 

See yon pale stripling ! when a boy, 

A mother's pride, a father's joy ! 

Now, 'gainst the vault's rude walls reclined, 

An early image fills his mind : 

The cottage, once his sire's, he sees. 

Embower' d upon the banks of Tees ; 

He views sweet Winston's woodland 

scene. 
And shares the dance on Gainford-green. 
A tear is springing — but the zest 
Of some wild tale or brutal jest. 
Hath to loud laughter stirr'd the rest. 
On him they call, the aptest mate 
For jovial song and merry feat : 
Fast flies his dream — with dauntless air, 
As one victorious o'er Despair, 
He bids the ruby cup go round. 
Till sense and sorrow bothfire drown'd : 
And soon, in merry wassail, he. 
The life of all their revelry. 
Peals his loud song ! — The muse has found 
Her blossoms on the wildest ground, 
'Mid noxious weeds at random strew'd, 
Themselves all profitless and rude. — • 
With desperate merriment he sung, 
The cavern to the chorus run? ; 










ROKEBY. 



199 



Yet mingled with his reckless glee 
Remorse's bitter agony. 

XVI. 
SONG. 

O, Brignall banks are wild and fair, 

And Greta woods are green, 
And you may gather garlands there, 

Would grace a summer queen. 
And as I rode by Dalton-hall, 

Beneath the turrets high, 
A Maiden on the castle wall 

Was singing merrily, — 

CHORUS. 

" O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair, 

And Greta woods are green ; 
I'd rather rove with Edmund there, 

Than reign our English queen." — 

■" If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me, 

To leave both tower and town, 
Thou first must guess what life lead we, 

That dwell by dale and down ? 
And if thou canst that riddle read, 

As read full well you may, 
Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed, 

As blithe as Queen of May." — 

CHORUS. 

Yet sung she, " Brignall banks are fair, 

And Greta woods are green ; 
I'd rather rove with Edmund there, 

Than reign our English queen. 

XVII. 

" I read you, by your bugle-horn, 

And by your palfrey good, 
I read you for a ranger sworn. 

To keep the king's greenwood."— 
"A Ranger, lady, winds his horn. 

And 'tis at peep of light ; 
His blast is heard at merry morn, 

And mine at dead of night." — 

CHORUS. 

Yet sung she, " Brignall banks are fair, 

And Greta woods are gay ; 
I would I were with Edmund there, 

To reign his Oueen of May 1 

" With burnish'd brand and musketoon. 

So gallantly you come, 
I read you for a bold Dragoon, 

That lists the tuck of drum." — 
" I list no more the tuck of drum, 

No more the trumpet hear ; 
But when the beetle sounds his hum. 

My comrades take the spear. 



CHORUS. 

" And, O ! though Brignall banks be fair, 

And Greta woods be gay, 
Yet mickle must the maiden dare, 

Would reign my Queen of May ! 

XVIII. 
" Maiden ! a nameless life I lead, 

A nameless death I'll die ! 
The fiend, whose lantern lights the mead 

Were better mate than I ! 
And w^hen Tm with my comrades met. 

Beneath the greenwood bough, 
Wliat once we were we all forget. 

Nor think what we are now. 

CHORUS. 

•' Vet Brignall banks are fresh and fair^ 

And Greta woods are green, 
And you may gather garlands there 

Would grace a summer queen." 
When Edmund ceased his simple song, 
Was silence on the sullen throng, 
Till waked some ruder mate their glee 
With note of coarser minstrelsy. 
But, far apart, in dark divan, 
Uenzil and Bertram many a plan, 
Of import foul and fierce, design'd, 
While still on Bertram's grasping mind 
The wealth of murder'd Mortham hung ; 
Though half he fear'd his daring tongue, 
When it should give his wishes birth, 
Might raise a spectre from the earth ! 

XIX. 

At length his wondrous tale he told : 

When, scornful, smiled his comrade bold; 

For, train'd in license of a court. 

Religion's self was Denzil's sport ; 

Then judge in what contempt he held 

The visionary tales of eld ! 

H is awe for Bertram scarce repress'd 

The unbeliever's sneering jest. 

" 'Twere hard," he said, ■' for sage or seer 

To spell the subject of your fear ; 

Nor do I boast the art renown'd, 

Vision and omen to expound. 

Yet, faith, if I must needs afford 

To spectre watching treasured hoard, 

As bandog keeps his master's roof, 

Bidding the plunderer stand aloof. 

This doubt remains — thy goblin gaunt 

Hath chosen ill his ghostly haunt ; 

For why his guard on Mortham hold, 

When Rokeby castle hatli the gold 

Thy patron won on Indian soil. 

By stealth, by piracy, and spoil ? " 



^^ 




M. 




200 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



At this lie paused — for angry shame 

Lower'd on the brow of Risingham. 

He bhish'dto think, tliat he should seem 

Assertor of an airy dream, 

And gave his wrath another theme. 

" Denzil," lie says, " though lowly laid, 

Wrong not the memory of the dead ; 

For, while he lived, atMortham's look 

Thy very soul, Guy Denzil, shook ! 

And when he tax'd thy breach of word 

To yon fair Rose of Allenford, 

1 saw thee crouch like chasten'd hound. 

Whose back the huntsman's lash hath 

found. 
Nor dare to call his foreign wealth 
The spoil of piracy or stealth ; 
He won it bravely with his brand. 
When Spain waged warfare with our land. 3' 
Mark, too — I brook no idle jeer. 
Nor couple Bertram's name with fear; 
Mine is but half the demon's lot, 
For I believe, but tremble not. — 
Enough of this. — Say, why this hoard 
Thou deem'st at Rokeby castle stored ; 
Or think'st that Mortham would bestow 
His treasure with his faction's foe ? " 



XXI. 

was Denzil's 



ill-timed 



Soon quench'd 

mirth ; 
Rather he would have seen the earth 
Give to ten thousand spectres birth. 
Than venture to awake to flame 
The deadly wrath of Risingham. 
Submiss he answer'd, — " Mortham"s mind, 
Thou know'st, to joy was ill inclined. 
In youth, 'tis said, a gallant free, 
A lusty reveller was he ; 
But since return'd from over sea, 
A sullen and a silent mood 
Hath numb'd the current of his blood. 
Hence he refused each kindly call 
I'o Rokeby's liospitable hall, 
And our stout knight, at dawn of morn 
Who loved to hear the bugle horn, 
Nor less, when eve his oaks embrown'd, 
To see the ruddy cup go round. 
Took umbrage that a friend so near 
Refused to share his chase and cheer ; 
Thus did the kindred barons jar, 
Ere they divided in the war. 
Yet, trust me, friend, Matilda fair 
Of Mortham's wealth is destined heir." — 

XXII. 

" Destined to her ! to yon slight maid 1 
The prize my life had wellnigh paid, 



When 'gainst Laroche, by Cayo's wave, 

1 fought, my patron's wealth to save !— 
Denzil, I knew him long, yet ne'er 
Knew him that joyous cavalier, 
Whom youthful friends and early fame 
Call'd soul of gallantry and game. 
A moody man, he souglit our crew. 
Desperate and dark, whom no one knew •, 
And rose, as men with us must rise, 
By scorning life and all its ties. 
On each aclventure rash he roved, 
As danger for itself he loved ; 
On his sad brow nor mirth nor wine 
Could e'er one wrinkled knot untwine ; 
111 was the omen if he smiled. 
For 'twas in peril stern and wild ; 
But when he laugh'd, each luckless mate 
Miglit hold our fortune desperate. 
Foremost he fought in every broil, 
Then scornful turn'd him from the spoil : 
Nay, often strove to bar the way 
Between his comrades and tlieir prey ; 
Preaching, even then, to such as we, 
Hot with our dear-bought victory, 
Of mercy and humanity. 



" I loved him well — His fearless part 
His gallant leading, won my heart. 
And after each victorious fight, 
'Twas I tliat wrangled for his right. 
Redeem 'd his portion of the prey 
That greedier mates had torn away : 
In field and storm thrice saved his life, 
And once amid our comrades' strife. — ^^ 
Yes, I have loved thee ! Well hath proved 
My toil, my danger, liow I loved ! 
Yet will I mourn no more thy fate, 
Ingrate in life, in death ingrate. 
Rise if thou canst ! " he look'd around, 
And sternly stamp'd upon the ground — 
" Rise, with thy bearing proud and high, 
Even as this morn it met mine eye, 
And give me, if thou darest, the lie ! " 
He paused — then, calm and passion-freed, 
Bade Denzil with his tale proceed. 



" Bertram, to thee I need not tell, 
What thou hast cause to wot so well. 
How Superstition's nets were twined 
Around the Lord of Mortham's mindl 
But since he drove thee from his tower, 
A maid he found in Greta's bower, 
Whose speech, like David's harp, had 

sway. 
To charm his evil fiend away. 



^" 





'A weary lot is thine, fair maid, 

A weary lot is thine ! " — Page 201. 





ROKEBY. 



20I 



r know not if her features moved 
Remembrance of the wife he loved ; 
But he would gaze upon her eye, 
Till his mood soften'd to a sigh. 
He, whom no living mortal sought 
To question of his secret thought, 
Now every thought and care confess'd 
To his fair niece's faithful breast ; 
Nor was there aught of rich and rare, 
In earth, in ocean, or in air. 
But it must deck Matilda's hair. 
Her love still bound him unto life ; 
But tlien awoke the civil strife. 
And menials bore, by his commands, 
Tln^ee coffers, with their iron bands, 
From Mortham's vault, at midnight deep, 
To her lone bower in Rokeby-Keep, 
Ponderous with gold and plate of pride, 
His gift, if he in battle died.'' — 



" Then Denzil, as I guess, lays train, 
These iron-banded chests to gain ; 
Else, wherefore should he hover here. 
Where many a peril waits him near, 
For all his feats of war and peace. 
For plunder'd boors, and harts of greese ? 
Since through the hamlets as he fared. 
What hearth has Guy's marauding spared. 
Or where the chase that hath not rung 
With Denzil's bow, at midnight strung .' "— 
"I hold my wont — my rangers go. 
Even now to track a milk-white doe. 
By Rokeby-hall she takes her lair. 
In Greta wood she harbors fair, 
And when my huntsman marks her way, 
What think'st thou, Bertram, of the prey .■' 
Were Rokeby's daughter in our power, 
We rate her ransom at her dower." 



vengeance 



the 



" 'Tis well ! — there's 

thought, 
Matilda is by Wilfrid sought; 
And hot-bram'd Redmond, too, 'tis said. 
Pays lover's homage to the maid. 
Bertram she scorn'd — If met by chance, 
She turn'd from me her shuddering glance, 
Like a nice dame, that will not brook 
On what she hates and loathes to look ; 
She told to Mortham she could ne'er 
Behold me without secret fear, 
Foreboding evil ;— She may rue 
To find her prophecy fall true ! — 
The war has weeded Rokeby's train, 
Few followers in his halls remain ; 



If thy- scheme miss, then, brief and bold, 
We are enow to storm the hold ; 
Bear off the plunder, and the dame. 
And leave the castle all in flame." — 



" Still art thou Valor's venturous son ! 

Yet ponder first the risk to run : 

The menials of the castle, true. 

And stubborn to their charge, though few ; 

The wall to scale — the moat to cross — 

The wicket-gate- — the mner fosse." — 

— " Fool ! if we blench for toys like these. 

On what fair guerdon can we seize 1 

Our hardiest venture, to explore 

.Some wretched peasant's fenceless door. 

And the best prize we bear away, 

The earnings of his sordid day."— 

" A while thy hasty taunt forbear ; 

In sight of road more sure and fair, 

Thou wouldst not choose, in blindfold 

wrath. 
Or wantonness, ^ desperate path .-' 
List, then ; — for vantage or assault, 
From gilded vane to dungeon-vault, 
Each pass of Rokeby-house I know : 
There is one postern, dark and low, 
That issues at a secret spot. 
By most neglected or forgot. 
Now, could a spial of our train 
On fair pretext admittance gain. 
That sally-port might be unbarr'd : 
Then, vain were battlement and ward! ' 

X.WIII. 

" Now speak'st thou well : — to me the 

same, 
If force or art shall urge the game ; 
Indifferent, if like fox I wind, 
Or spring like tiger on the hind. — 
But, hark ! our merry men so gay 
Troll forth another roundelay." — 



" A weary lot is thine, fair maid, 

A weary lot is thine ! 
To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, 

And press the rue for wine ! 
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, 

.'\ feather of the blue, 
A doublet of the Lincoln green, — 

No more of me you knew, 

My love I 
No more of me you knew. 

" This morn is merry June, I trow. 
The rose is budding fain ; 






202 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



But r.he shall bloom in winter snow, 

Ere we two meet again." 
He tiirn'd his charger as he spake, 

Upon the river shore, 
He gave his bridle-reins a shake, 

Said, " Adieu for evermore, 

My love! 
And adieu tor evermore." — ^^ 

XXIX. 

" What youth is this, your band among, 
The best for minstrelsy and song ? 
In his wild notes seem aptly met 
A strain of pleasure and regret."— 
" Edmund of Winston is his name ; 
The hamlet sounded with the fame 
Of early hopes his childhood gave, — 
Now centrVJ all in Brignall cave I 
I watch him well — his wayward course 
Shows oft a tincture of remorse. 
Some early love-shaft grazed his heart. 
And oft tlie scar will ache and smart. 
Yet is he useful ; — of the rest, 
By fits, the darling and the jest, 
His harp, his story, and his lay, 
Oft aid the idle hours away. 
When unemploy'd, each fiery mate 
Is ripe for mutinous debate. 
He tuned his strings e'en now — again 
He wakes them, with a blither strain." 

XXX. 

SONG. 

Allen-a-Dale. 

Allen-a-Dale has no fagot for burning, 

AlIen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning, 

Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning. 

Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the win- 
ning. 

Come, read me my riddle ! come, hearken 
my tale ! 

And tell me the craft of bold AIlen-a-Dale. 

The Baron of Ravensworth * prances in 
pride, 

And he views his domains upon .\rkindale 
side. 

The mere for his net, and the land for his 
game, 

The chase for the wild, and the park for the 
tame, 



* The ruins of Ravensworth Castle stand in 
the North Riding of Yorkshire, about three 
miles from the town of Richmond, and adjoin- 
ing to the waste called the Forest of Arkin- 
garth. It belonged originally to the powerful 
family of Kitz-Hugh, from whom it passed to 
the Lords Dacre of the South. 



Yet the fish of the lake, and the deer of the 
vale, 

Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen-a- 
Dale ! 

Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight. 
Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade 

be as bright ; 
Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord, 
Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his 

word ; 
And the best of our nobles his bonnet will 

vail, 
Who at Rere-cross ^'' on Stanmore meets 

Allen-a-Dale. 

Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come ; 

The mother, she ask'd of his household and 
home: 

" Though the castle of Richmond stand fair 
on the hill. 

My hall," quoth bold Allen, "shows gal- 
lanter still ; 

'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its cres- 
cent so pale, 

And with all its bright spangles ! " said 
Allen-a-Dale. 

The father was steel, and the mother was 
stone ; 

They lifted the latch, and they bade him be 
gone ; 

But loud, on the morrow, their wail and 
their cry : 

He had laugh'd on the lass with his bonny 
black eye, 

And she fled to the forest to hear a love- 
tale. 

And the youth it was told by was Allen-a- 
Dale '! 

XXXI. 

" Thou see'st that, whether sad or gay, 
Love mingles ever in his lay. 
But when his boyish wayward fit 
Is o'er, he hath address and wit ; 

! 'tis a brain of fire, can ape 
Each dialect, each various shape." 

" Nay, then, to aid thy project, Guy — 
Soft ! who comes here ? " — " My trusty spy. 
Speak, Hamlin ! hast thou lodged our 

deer ? " — ^^ 
'' I have — but two fair stags are near. 

1 watch'd her, as she slowly stray'd 
From Egliston up Thorsgill glade ; 
But Wilfrid Wycliffe sought her side, 
And then young Redmond, in his pride, 
Shot down to meet them on their way : 
Much, as it seem'd, was theirs to say : 







ROKEB V. 



203 



There's time to pitch both toil and net, 
Before tiieir path be homeward set." 
A hurried and a whisper'd speecli 
Did Bertram's will to Denzil teach ; 
Who, turning to the robber band, 
Bade four, the bravest, take the brand. 



CANTO FOURTH. 
I. 
When Denmark's raven soar'd on high, 
Triumphant througli Northumbrian sky, 
Till, hovering near, her fatal croak 
Bade Reged's Britons dread the yoke,'^ 
And the broad shadow of her wing 
Blacken'd each cataract and spring. 
Where Tees in tumult leaves his source. 
Thundering o'er Caldron and High-Force : 
Beneath the shade the Northmen came, 
Fix'd on each vale a Runic name,^'' 
Rear'd high their altar's rugged stone. 
And gave their Gods the land they won. 
Then, Balder, one bleak garth was thine, 
And one sweet brooklet's silver line, 
And Woden's Croft did title gain 
From the stern Father of the Slain ; 
But to the Monarch of the iSIace, 
That held in fight the foremost place, 
To Odin's son, and Sifia's spouse. 
Near Stratfnrth high they paid their vows, 
Remember'd Thor's victorious fame, 
And gave the dell the Thunderer's name. 

Ji. 
Yet Scald or Kemper err'd, I ween. 
Who gave that soft and cjuiet scene, 
With all its varied light and shade, 
And every little sunny glade, 
And the blithe brook that strolls along 
Its pebbled bed with summer song. 
To the grim God of blood and scar, 
The grisly King of Northern War. 
O, better were its banks assign'd 
To spirits of a gentler kind ! 
For where the thicket groups recede. 
And the rath primrose decks the mead. 
The velvet grass seems carpet meet 
For the light fairies' lively feet. 
Yon tufted knoll, with daisies strown, 
Might make proud Oberon a throne, 
While, hidden in the thicket nigh, 
Puck should brood o'er his frolic sly ; 
And where profuse the wood-vetch clings 
Round ash and elm, in verdant rings, 
Its pale and azure-pencill'd flower 
Should canopy Titania's bower. 



Here rise no cliffs the vale to shade ; 
But, skirting every sunny glade, 
In fair variety of green 
The woodland lends its sylvan screen. 
Hoary, yet haughty, frowns the oak. 
Its boughs by weight of ages broke ; 
And towers erect, in sable spire. 
The pine-tree scathed by lightning fire ; 
The drooping ash and birch, between. 
Hang their fair tresses o'er the green. 
And all beneath, at random grow 
Each coppice dwarf of varied show. 
Or, round the stems profusely twined, 
Fling summer odors on the wind. 
Such varied group Urbino's hand 
Round Him of Tarsus nobly plann'd. 
What time he bade proud Athens own 
On Mars's Mount the God unknown ! 
Then gray Philosophy stood nigh, 
Though bent by age, in spirit high : 
Then rose the scar-seam'd veteran's spear. 
There Grecian Beauty bent to hear. 
While Childhood at her foot was placed, 
Or clung delighted to her waist. 

IV. 

" And rest we here," Matilda said. 
And sat her in the varying shade. 
" Chance-met, we well may steal an hour. 
To friendship due, from fortune's power. 
Thou, Wilfrid, ever kind, must lend 
Thy counsel to thy sister-friend ; 
And, Redmond, thou, at my behest. 
No farther urge thy desperate quest. 
For to my care a charge is left, 
Dangerous to one of aid bereft ; 
Wellnigh an orphan, and alone. 
Captive her sire, her house o'erthrown." 
Wilfrid, with wonted kindness graced. 
Beside her on the turf she placed ; 
Then paused, with downcast look and eye, 
Nor bade young Redmond seat him nigh. 
Her conscious diffidence he saw. 
Drew backward, as in modest awe, 
And sat a little space removed, 
Unmark'd to gaze on her he loved. 



Wreathed in its dark-brown rings, her hair 
Half hid Matilda's forehead fair. 
Half hid and half reveal'd to view 
Her full dark eye of hazel hue. 
The rose, with faint andifeeble streak, 
So slightly tinged the maiden's cheek, 
That you had said her hue was pale ; 
But if she faced the summer gale. 







204 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Or spoke, or sung, or quicker moved. 

Or heard the praise of those she loved. 

Or when of interest was express'd 

Aught that waked feehng in her breast. 

The mantling blood in ready play 

Rivall'd the blush of rising day. 

There was a soft and pensive grace, 

A cast of thought upon her face. 

That suited well the forehead high, 

The eyelash dark, and downcast eye ; 

The mild expression spoke a mind 

In duty firm, composed, resign'd ; 

'Tis that which Roman art has given 

To mark their maiden Queen of Heaven. 

In hours of sport, that mood gave, way 

To fancy's light and frolic play ; 

And when the dance, or tale, or song. 

In harmless mirth sped time along. 

Full oft her doating sire would call 

His Maud the merriest of them all. 

But days of war and civil crime, 

Allow'd but ill such festal time. 

And her soft pensiveness of brow 

Had deepen'd into sadness now. 

In Marston field her father ta'en, 

Her friends dispersed, brave Mortham slain. 

While every ill her soul foretold. 

From Oswald's thirst of power and gold. 

And boding thoughts that she must part 

With a soft vision of her heart, — 

All lower'd around the lovely maid, 

To darken her dejection's shade. 



VI. 



Who has not heard — while Erin yet 
Strove 'gainst the Saxon's iron bit — 
Who has not heard how brave O'Neale 
In English blood imbrued his steel, ^^ 
Against St. George's cross blazed high 
The banners of his Tanistry, 
To fiery Essex gave the foil. 
And reign'd a prince on Ulster's soil? 
But chief arose his victor pride. 
When that brave Marshal fought and died,39 
And Avon-Duff to ocean bore 
His billows red with Saxon gore. 
'Twas first in that disastrous fight, 
Rokeby and Mortham proved their might. 
There had they fallen 'mongst the rest. 
But pity touch'd a chieftain's breast; 
The Tanist he to great O'Neale ; ^o 
He check'd his followers' bloody zeal. 
To quarter took the kinsmen bold. 
And bore them to his mountain-hold, 
Gave them each sylvan joy to know, 



Slieve-Donard's cliffs and woods could 

show, 
Shared with them Erin's festal cheer, 
Show'd them the chase of wolf and deer. 
And, when a fitting time was come, 
Safe and unransom'd sent them home, 
Loaded with many a gift, to ].irove 
A generous foe's respect and love. 



Years speed away. On Rokeby's head 
Some touch of early snow was shed ; 
Calm he enjoy'd, by Greta's wave, 
The peace which James the Peaceful gave. 
While Mortham, far beyond the main, 
Waged his fierce wars on Indian Spain.- 
It chanced upon a wintry night, 
That whiten'd Stanmore's stormy height. 
The chase was o'er, the stag was kill'd, 
In Rokeby hall the cups were fill'd. 
And by the huge stone chimney sate 
The Knigiit in hospitable state. 
Moonless the sky, the hour was late. 
When a loud summons shook the gate 
And sore for entrance and for aid 
A voice of foreign accent pray'd. 
The porter answer'd to the call. 
And instant rush'd into the hall 
A Man, whose aspect and attire 
Startled the circle by the fire. 



His plaited hair in elf-locks spread 
Around his bare and matted head ; 
On leg and thigh, close stretch'd and trim 
His vesture show'd the sinewy limb ; 
In saffron dyed, a linen vest 
Was frequent folded round his breast ; 
A mantle long and loose he wore. 
Shaggy with ice, and stain'd with gore. 
He clasp'd a burden to his heart, 
And, resting on a knotted dart, 
The snow from hair and beard he shook, 
And round him gazed with wilder'd look. 
Then up the hall with staggering pace. 
He hasten'd by the blaze to place, 
Half lifeless from the bitter air, 
His load, a Boy of beauty rare. 
To Rokeby, next, he louted low, 
Then stood erect his tale to show, 
With wild majestic port and tone. 
Like envoy of some barbarous throne."" 
" Sir Richard, Lord of Rokeby, hear ! 
Turlough O'Neale salutes thee dear ; 
He graces thee, and to thy care 
Young Redmond gives, his grandson fair. 










^ 



ROhEBY. 



205 



He bids thee breed him as thy son, 
For Turlough's days of joy are done ; 
And other lords have seized his land., 
And faint and feeble is his hand ; 
And all the glory of Tyrone 
Is like a morning vapor flown. 
To bind the duty on thy soul, 
He bids thee think on Erin's bowl ! 
If any wrong the young O'Neale, 
He bids thee think of Erin's steel. 
To Mortham first this charge was due, 
But, in his absence, honors you. — 
Now is my master's message by, 
And Ferraught will contented die 



His look grew fix'd, his cheek grew pale. 
He sunk when he had told his tale ; 
For, hid beneath his mantle wide, 
A mortal wound was in his side. 
Vain was all aid — in terror wild, 
And sorrow, scream'd the orphan Child. 
Poor Ferraught raised his wistful eyes, 
And faintly strove to soothe his cries ; 
All reckless of his dying pain. 
He blest and blest him o'er again ! 
And kiss'd the little hands outspread, 
And kiss'd and cross'd the infant head, 
And, in his native tongue and phrase, 
Pray'd to each Saint to watch his days : 
Then all his strength together drew. 
The charge to Rokeby to renew. 
When half was falter'd from his breast, 
And half by dying signs express'd, 
" Bless the O'Neale ! " he faintly said, 
And thus the faithful spirit fled. 



'Twas long ere soothing might prevail 
Upon the Child to end the tale ; 
And then he said, that from his home 
His grandsire had been forced to roam, 
Which had not been if Redmond's hand 
Had but had strength to draw the brand. 
The brand of Lenaugh More the Red, 
That hung beside the gray wolf's head.— 
'Twas from his broken phrase descried, 
His foster-father was his guide, ''^ 
Who, in his charge, from Ulster bore 
Letters and gifts a goodly store : 
But ruffians met them in the wood, 
Ferraught in battle boldly stood, 
Till wounded and o'erpower'd at length, 
And stripp'd of all, his failing strength 
Just bore him here — and then the child 
Renew'd again his moaning wild. 



The tear down childhood's cheek that flows, 
Is like the dewdrop on the rose ; 
When next the summer breeze comes by, 
And waves the bush, the flower is dry. 
Won by their care, the orphan Child 
Soon on his new protector smiled, 
With dimpled clieek and eye so fair. 
Through his thick curls of flaxen hair, 
But blithest laagh'd that cheek and eye, 
When Rokeby's little maid was nigh ; 
'Twas his, with elder brother's pride, 
Matilda's tottering steps to guide ; 
His native lays in Irish tongue. 
To soothe her infant ear he sung, 
And primrose twined with daisy fair, 
To form a chaplet for lier hair, 
By lawn, by grove, by brooklet's strand. 
The children still were hand in hand, 
And good Sir Richard smiling eyed. 
The early knot so kindly tied. 



But summer months bring wilding shoot 

From bud to bloom, from "oloom to fruit ; 

.And years draw on our human span, 

From child to boy, from boy to man ; 

.And soon in Rokeby's woods is seen 

A gallant boy in hunter's green. 

He loves to wake the felon boar, 

In his dark haunt on Greta's shore. 

And loves, against the deer so dun. 

To draw the shaft, or lift the gun. 

Yet more he loves, in autumn prime, 

The hazel's spreading boughs to climb, 

."Xnd down its cluster'd stores to hail, 

Where young Matilda holds her vail. 

And she, whose veil receives the shower, 

Is alter'd too, and knows her power ; 

.Assumes a monitress's pride. 

Her Redmond's dangerous sports to chide, 

Yet listens still to hear him tell 

How the grim wild-boar fought and fell, 

Hov/ at his fall the bugle rung. 

Till rock and greenwood answer flung; 

Then blesses her, that man can find 

A pastime of such savage kind ! 



But Redmond knew to weave his tale 
So well with praise of wood and dale, 
And knew so well each point to trace, 
Gives living interest to the chase, 
And knew so well o'er all to throw 
His spirit's wild romantic glow. 





2o6 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



That, while she blamed, and while she 

fear'd, 
She loved each venturous tale she heard. 
Oft, too, when drifted snow and rain 
To bower and hall their steps restrain, 
Together they explored the page 
Of glowing bard or gifted sage ; 
Oft, placed the evening fire beside. 
The minstrel art alternate tried, 
While gladsome harp and lively lay 
Bade winter-night flit fast away : 
Thus, from their childhood, blending still 
Their sport, their study, and their skill, 
An union of the soul they prove, 
But must not tiiink that it was love. 
But though they dared not, envious Fame 
Soon dared to give that union name ; 
And when so often, side by side, 
From year to year the pair she eyed, 
She sometimes blamed the good old Knight, 
As dull of ear and dim of sight. 
Sometimes his purpose would declare, 
That young O'Neale should wed his heir. 



The suit of Wilfrid rent disguise 
And bandage from the lovers' eyes ; 
'Twas plain that Oswald, for his son. 
Had Rokebys favor wellnigh won. 
Now must they meet with change of cheer, 
With mutual looks of shame and fear ; 
Now must Matilda stray apart, 
To school her disobedient heart : 
And Redmond now alone must rue 
The love he never can subdue. 
But factions rose, and Rokeby sware 
No rebel's son should wed his heir ; 
And Redmond, nurtured while a child 
In many a bard's traditions wild, 
Now sought the lonely wood or stream. 
To cherish there a happier dream, 
1 Of maiden won by sv/ord or lance, 
As in the regions of romance ; 
And count the heroes of his line. 
Great Nial of the Pledges Nine,''^ 
Shane-Dymas'''' wild, and Geraldine,-" 
And Connan-more, who vow'd his race 
Forever to the fight and chase. 
And cursed him, of his lineage born, 
Should sheathe the sword to reap the corn. 
Or leave the mountain and the wold, 
To shroud himself in castled hold. 
From such examples hope he drew, 
And brighten'd as the trumpet blew. 



If brides were won by heart and blade, 
Redmond had both his cause to aid. 
And all beside of nurture rare 
Tiiat might beseem a baron's heir. 
Turlough 0'Neale(.in Erin's strife, 
On Rokeby's Lord bestow'd his life. 
And well did Rokeby's generous Knight 
Young Redmond for the deed requite. 
Nor was his liberal care and cost 
Upon the gallant stripling lost ; 
Seek the North-Riding broad and wide, 
Like Redmond none could steed bestride 
From Tynemouth search to Cumberland, 
Like Redmond none could wield a brand ; 
And then, of humor kind and free. 
And bearing him to each degree 
With frank and fearless courtesy, 
There never youth was form'd to steal 
Upon the heart like brave O'Neale. 

XVI. 

Sir Richard loved him as his son : 
And \vhen the days of peace were done, 
And to the gales of war he gave 
The banner of his sires to wave, 
Redmond, distinguish'd by his care. 
He chose that honor'd flag to bear. 
And named his page, the next degree, 
In that old time, to chivalry.''^ 
In five pitch'd fields he well maintain'd 
The honor'd place his worth obtain'd, 
.4nd high was Redmond's youthful name 
Blazed in the roll of martial fame. 
Had fortune smiled on Marston fight, 
The eve had seen him dubb'd a knight ; 
Twice, 'mid the battle's doubtful strife, 
Of Rokeby's Lord he saved the life. 
But when he saw him prisoner made, 
He kiss'd and then resign'd his blade, 
And yielded him an easy prey 
To those who led the Knight away ; 
Resolved Matilda's sire should prove 
In prison, as in fight, his love. 

XVII. 

When lovers meet in adverse hour, 
'Tis like a sun-glimpse through a shower 
A watery ray, an instant seen 
The darkly closing clouds between. 
As Redmond on the turf reclined, 
The past and present fill'd his mind : 
" It w.is not thus," Affection said, 
" I dream'd of my return, dear maid! 
Not thus, when from thy trembling hand, 
I took the banner and the brand, 
When round me, as the bugles blew, 
Their blades three hundred warriors drew 





ROKEB Y. 



And, while the standard I unroll'd, 
Clash'd their bright arms, with clamor 

bold. 
Where is that banner now ? — its pride 
Lies 'whelm'd in Ouse's sullen tide ! 
Where now these warriors ? — in their gore, 
They cumber Marston's dismal moor ! 
And what avails a useless brand, 
Held by a captive's shackled hand. 
That only would his life retain, 
To aid thy sire to bear his chain ! " 
Thus Redmond to himself apart ; 
Nor lighter was his rival's heart ; 
For Wilfrid, wliile his generous soul 
Disdain'd to profit by control. 
By many a sign could mark too plain. 
Save with such aid, his hopes were vair^ — 
But now Matilda's accents stole 
On the dark visions of their soul, 
A.nd bade their mournful musing fly, 
Like mist before the zephyr's sigh. 



" I need not to my friends recall, 

How Mortham shunn'd my fatlier's hall; 

A man of silence and of woe. 

Yet ever anxious to bestow 

On my poor self wliate'er could prove 

A kinsman's confidence and love. 

My feeble aid could sometimes chase 

The clouds of sorrow for a space : 

But oftener, fix'd beyond my power, 

I mark'd his deep despondence lower. 

One dismal cause, by all unguess'd. 

His fearful confidence confess'd ; 

And twice it was my hap to see 

Examples of that agony. 

Which for a season can o'erstrain 

And wreck the structure of the brain. 

He had the awful power to know 

The approaching mental overthrow, 

And while his mind had courage yet 

To struggle with the dreadful fit, 

The victim writhed against its throes. 

Like wretcli beneath a murderer's blows. 

This malady, I well could mark, 

Sprung from some direful cause and dark 

But still he kept its source conceal'd. 

Till arming for the civil field ; 

Then in my charge he bade me hold 

A treasure huge of gems and gold, ■ 

With this disjointed dismal scroll, 

That tells the secret of his soul. 

In such wild words as oft betray 

A mind by anguish forced astray."— 




MORTHAM'S HISTORY. 

" Matilda ! thou hast seen me start, 
As if a dagger thrill'd my heart. 
When it has hap'd some casual phrase 
Waked memory of my former days. 
Believe, that few can backward cast 
Their thoughts with pleasure on the past: 
But I ! — my youth was rash and vain. 
And blood and rage my manhood stain, 
And my gray hairs must now descend 
To my cold grave without a friend ! 
Even thou, Matilda, wilt disown 
Thy kinsman, when his guilt is known. 
And must I lift the bloody veil, 
That hides my dark and fatal tale ! 
1 must — I -.vill — Pale phantom, cease ! 
Leave me one little hour in peace ! 
Thus haunted, think'st thou I have skill 
Thine own commission to fulfil ? 
Or, while thou point'st vith gesture fierce, 
Thy blighted cheek, thy bloody hearse, 
How can I paint thee as thou wort, 
So fair in face, so warm in heart ; 



" Yes, she was fair ! — Matilda, thou 
Hast a soft sadness on thy brow ; 
But hers was like the sunny glow. 
That laughs on earth and all below ! 
We wedded secret — there was need — 
Differing in country and in creed ; 
And, when to Mortham's tower she came, 
We mention'd not her race and name, 
Until thy sire, who fought afar. 
Should turn him home from foreign war, 
On whose kind influence we relied 
To sooth her father's ire and pride. 
Few months we lived retired, unknown, 
To all but one dear friend alone, 
One darling friend — I spare his shame. 
I will not write the villain's name ! 
My trespasses I might forget, 
And sue in vengeance for the debt 
Due by a brother worm to me. 
Ungrateful to God's clemency. 
That spared me penitential time. 
Nor cut me off amid my crime. — 

XXI. 

" A kindly smile to all she lent. 
But on her husband's friend 'twas bent 
So kind, that from its harmless glee, 
The wretch misconstrued villany. 
Repulsed in his presumptuous love, 
A vengeful snare the traitor wove. 






^SElv 



2o{5 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS- 



Alone we sat — the flask had flow'd, 

My blood with heat unwonted glow'd. 

When through the alley'd walk we spied 

With hurried step my Edith glide, 

Cowering beneath the verdant screen, 

As one unwilling to be seen. 

Words cannot paint the fiendish smile, 

That curl'd the traitor's cheek the while ! 

Fiercely I question' d of the cause :: 

He made a cold and artful pause, 

Then pray'd it might not chafe my mood — 

' There was a gallant in the wood ! ' 

We had been shooting at the deer ; 

My cross-bow (evil chance !) was near : 

That ready weapon of my wrath 

I caught, and, hasting up the path. 

In the yew grove my wife I found, 

A stranger's arms her neck had bound ! 

I mark'd his heart — the bow I drew — ■ 

I loosed the shaft — 'twas more than true ! 

1 found my Edith's dying charms 

Lock'd in her murder'd brother's arms ' 

He came in secret to inquire 

Iler state, and reconcile her sire. 



" All fled my rage — the villain first. 

Whose craft my jealousy had nursed ; 

He sought in far and foreign clime 

To 'scape the vengeance of his crime. 

The manner of the slaughter done 

Was known to few, my guilt to none ; 

Some tale my faithful steward framed^ 

I know not what — of shift mis-aim'd ; 

And even from those the act who knew. 

He hid the hand from which it flew. 

Untouch'd by human laws I stood, 

But God had heard the cry of blood ! 

There is a blank upon my mind, 

A fearful vision ill-defined, 

Of raving till my flesh was torn, 

Of dungeon-bolts and fetters worn — 

And when 1 waked to woe more mild. 

And question'd of my infant child — 

(Have 1 not written, that she bare 

A boy, like summer morning fair?) — 

With looks confused my menials tell 

That armed men in Mortham dell 

Beset the nurse's evening way. 

And bore her, with her charge, away. 

My faithless friend, and none but he, 

Could profit by this villany ; 

Him, then, I sought, with purpose dread 

Of treble vengeance on his head ! 

He 'scaped me — but my bosom's wound 

Some faint relief from wandering found ; 



And over distant land and sea 
I bore my load of misery. 

XXIII. 

" 'Twas then that fate my footsteps led 

Among a daring crew and dread. 

With whom full oft my hated life 

I ventured in such desperate strife. 

That even my fierce associates saw 

My frantic deeds with doubt and awe. 

Much then 1 learn'd, and much can show, 

Of human guilt and human woe. 

Yet ne'er have, in my wanderings, known 

h. wretch whose sorrows match'd my 

own ! — 
It chanced, that after battle fray. 
Upon the bloody field we lay ; 
The yellow moon her lustre shed 
Upon the wounded and the dead. 
While, sense in toil and wassail drown'd, 
My ruffian comrades slept around, 
There came a voice — its silver tone 
Was soft, Matilda, as thine own — 
' Ah, wretch ! ' it said, ' what makest thou 

here. 
While unavenged my bloody bier. 
While unprotected lives mine heir. 
Without a father's name and care ? ' 



" I heard — obey'd — and homeward drew 

The fiercest of our desperate crew 

I brought at time of need to aid 

My purposed vengeance, long delay'd. 

But, humble be my thanks to Heaven, 

That better hopes and thoughts has given, 

And by our Lord's dear prayer has taught, 

Mercy by mercy must be bought ! — 

Let me in misery rejoice — • 

I've seen his face — I've heard his voice - 

I claim' d of him my only child — 

As he disown'd the theft, he smiled ! 

That very calm and callous look, 

That fiendish sneer his visage took, 

As when he said, in scornful mood, 

' There is a gallant in the wood ! ' 

I did not slay him as he stood — 

All praise be to my Maker given ! 

Long sufferance is one path to heaven." 

XXV. 

I Thus far the woeful tale was heard. 
When something in the thicket stirr'd 
Up Redmond sprung ; the villain Guy, 
(For he it was that lurk'd so nigh,) 
Drew back — he durst not cross his steel 
A moment's space with brave O'Neaie, 







ROKEB V. 



39 



For all the treasured gold that rests 
In Mortham's iron-banded chests. 
Redmond resumed his seat ; — he said, 
Some roe was rustling m the shade. 
Bertram laugh'd grimly when he saw 
His timorous comrade backward draw ; 
" A trusty mate art thou, to fear 
A single arm, and aid so near ! 
Yet have I seen thee mark a deer. 
Give me thy carabine — I'll show. 
An art that thou wilt gladly know, 
How thou mayst safely quell a foe." 



On hands and knees fierce Bertram drew 
The spreading birch and hazels through. 
Till he had Redmond full in view ; 
The gun he levell'd — Mark like this 
Was Bertram never known to miss, 
When fair opposed to aim there sate 
An object of his mortal hate. 
That day young Redmond's death had seen 
But twice Matilda came between 
The carabine and Redmond's breast. 
Just ere the spring his finger press'd. 
A deadly oath the ruffian swore, 
But yet his fell design forbore : 
" It ne'er," he mutter'd, " shall he said, 
That thus I scath'd thee, haughty maid ! " 
Then moved to seek more open aim, 
When to his side Guy Denzil came : 
" Bertram, forbear ! — we are undone 
Forever, if thou fire the gun. 
By all the fiends, an armed force 
Descends the dell, of foot and horse ! 
We perish if they hear a shot — 
Madman ! we have a safer plot — 
Nay, friend, be ruled, and bear thee back ! 
Behold, down yonder hollow track, 
The warlike leader of the band 
Comes, with his broadsword in his hand." 
Bertram look'd up ; he saw, he new 
That Denzil's fears had counsell'd true, 
Then cursed his fortune and withdrew, 
Threaded the woodlands undescried, 
And gained the cave on Greta side. 

XXVII. 

They whom dark Bertram, in his wrath, 
Doom'd to captivity or death. 
Their thoughts to one sad subject lent, 
Saw not nor heard the ambushment. 
Heedless and unconcern'd they sate, 
While on the very verge of fate ; 
Heedless and unconcern'd remain'd, 
When Heaven the murderer's arm restrain'd ; 



As ships drift darkling down the tide, 

Nor see the shelves o'er which Ihey glide. 

Uninterrupted tluis they heard 

What Mortham's closing tale declared. 

He spoke of wealth as of a load, 

By Fortune on a wretch bestow'd. 

In bitter mockery of hate, 

His cureless woes to aggravate ; 

But yet he pray'd Matilda's care 

Might save that treasure for his heir- 

His Edith's son — for still he raved 

As confident his life was saved ; 

In frequent vision, he averr'd. 

He saw his face, his voice he heard ; 

Then argued calm — had murder been. 

The blood, the corpses, had been seen r 

Some had pretended, too, to mark 

On Windermere a stranger bark, 

Whose crew, with jealous care, yet mild, 

Guarded a female and a child. 

While these faint proofs he told and press'd, 

Hope seem'd to kindle in his breast ; 

Though inconsistent, vague, and vain, 

It warp'd his judgment, and his brain. 



These solemn words his story close : — ■ 
" Heaven witness for me, that I chose 
My part in this sad civil fight. 
Moved by no cause but England's right. 
My country's groans have bid me draw 
My sword for Gospel and for law ; — 
These righted, I fling arms aside. 
And seek my son through Europe wide. 
My wealth, on which a kinsman nigh 
Already casts a grasping eye, 
With thee may imsuspected lie. 
When of my death Matilda hears. 
Let her retain her trust three years ; 
If none, from me, the treasure claim, 
Perish'd is Mortham's race and name. 
Then let it leave her generous hand, 
And flow in bounty o'er the land ; 
Soften the wounded prisoner's lot, 
Rebuild the peasant's ruin'd cot ; 
So spoils, acquired by fight afar, 
Shall mitigate domestic war." 



The generous youths, who well had known 
Of Mortham's mind the powerful tone. 
To that high mind, by sorrow swerved, 
Gave sympathy his woes deserved ; 
But Wilfrid chief, who saw reveal'd 
Why Mortham wish'd his life conceal'd, 
In secret, doubtless, to pursue 
The schemes his wilder'd fancy drew. 




M. 



^^^SHBx 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Thoughtful he heard Matilda tell. 

That she would share her father's cell, 

His partner of captivity, 

Where'er his prison-house should be ; 

Yet grieved to think that Rokeby hall, 

Dismantled, and forsook by all. 

Open to rapine and to stealth. 

Had now no safe-guard for the wealth 

Intrusted by her kinsman kind, 

And for such noble use design'd. 

•* Was Barnard Castle then her choice," 

Wilfrid inquired with hasty voice, 

'' Since there the victor's laws ordain. 

Her father must a space remain ? " 

A flutter' d hope his accent shook, 

A llutter'd joy was in his look. 

Matilda hasten'd to repl}', 

For anger flash'd in Redmond's eye ; — 

" Duty," she said, with gentle grace, 

" Kind Wilfrid, has no choice of place ; 

Else had I for my sire assign'd 

Prison less galling to his mind. 

Than that his wild-wood haunts which sees 

And hears the murmurs of the Tees, 

Recalling thus, with every glance, 

What captive's sorrow can enhance ; 

But where those woes are highest, there 

Needs Rokeby most his daughter's care." 



He felt the kindly check she gave. 

And stood abash'd — then answer'd grave : 

" I sought thy purpose, noble maid. 

Thy doubts to clear, thy schemes to aid. 

I have beneath mine own command, 

So wills my sire, a gallant band. 

And well could send some horseman wight 

To bear the treasure forth by night, 

And so bestow it as you deem 

In these ill days may safest seem." — 

" Thanks, gentle Wilfrid, thanks," she said : 

" O, be it not one day delay'd ! 

And, more, thy sister-friend to aid, 

Be thou thyself content to hold, 

In thine own keeping, Mortham's gold. 

Safest with thee." — While thus she spoke, 

Arm'd soldiers on their converse broke, 

The same of whose approach afraid, 

The rufifians left their ambuscade. 

Their chief to Wilfrid bended low, 

Then look'd around as for a foe. 

" What mean'st thou, friend," >oung Wy- 

cliffe said, 
" Why thus in arms beset the glade ? " — 
" That would I gladly learn from you : 
For up my squadron as I drew, 



To exercise our martial game 
Upon the moor of Barninghame, 
A stranger told you were waylaid, 
Surrounded, and to death betray'd. 
He had a leader's voice, I ween, 
A falcon glance, a warrior's mien. 
He bade me bring you instt.nt aid ; 
I doubted not, and I obey'd." 

XXXI. 

Wilfrid changed color, and, amazed, 
Turn'd short, and on the speaker gazed ; 
While Redmond every thicket round 
Track'd earnest as a questing hound, 
And Denzil's carabine he found ; 
Sure evidence, by which they knew 
The warning was as kind as true. 
Wisest it seem'd, with cautious speed 
To leave the dell. It was agreed. 
That Redmond, with Matilda fan', 
And fitting guard, should home repair ; 
At nightfalfWilfrid should attend, 
With a strong band, his sister-friend. 
To bear with her from Rokeby's bowers 
To Barnard Castle's lofty towers. 
Secret and safe the banded chests. 
In which the wealth of Mortham rests. 
This hasty purpose fix'd, they part, 
Each with a grieved and anxious heart. 



CANTO FIFTH. 
I. 

The sultry summer day is done. 

The western hills have hid the sun, 

But mountain peak and village spire 

Retain reflection of his fire. 

Old Barnard's towers are purple still, 

To those that gaze from Toller-hill ; 

Distant and high, the tower of Bowes 

Like steel upon the anvil glows ; 

And Stanmore's ridge, behind that lay, 

Rich with the spoils of parting day. 

In crimson and in gold array'd. 

Streaks yet a while the closing shade. 

Then slow resigns to darkening heaven 

The tints which brighter hours had given. 

Thus aged men, full loth and slow. 

The vanities of life forego. 

And count their youthful follies o'er, 

Till Memory lends her light no more. 

II. 
The eve, that slow on upland fades, 
Has darker closed on Rokeby's glades. 
Where, sunk within theii banks profound 
Her guardian streams to meeting wound. 



*i r* 






ROKEBY. 



The stately oaks, whose sombre frown 
Of noontide made a twilight brown, 
Impervious now to fainter light. 
Of twilight make an early night. 
Hoarse into middle air arose 
The vespers of the roosting crows, 
And with congenial murmurs seem 
To wake the Genii of tlie stream ; 
For louder clamor'd Greta's tide, 
And Tees in deeper voice replied. 
And fitful waked the evening wind, 
Fitful in sighs its breath resign'd. 
Wilfrid, whose fancy-nurtured soul 
Felt in the scene a soft control. 
With lighter footstep press'd the ground. 
And often paused to look around ; 
And, though his path was to his love, 
Could not but linger in the grove. 
To drink the thrilling interest dear. 
Of awful pleasure check' d by fear. 
Such inconsistent moods have we, 
Even when our passions strike the key. 



Now, through the wood's dark mazes past, 
The opening lawn he reach'd at last. 
Where, silver'd by the moonlight ray, 
The ancient Hall before him lay. 
Those martial terrors long were fled, 
That frown 'd of old around its head : 
The battlements, the turrets gray, 
Seem'd half abandoned to decay ; ''■' 
On barbican and keep of stone 
Stern Time the foeman's work had done. 
Where banners the invader braved. 
The harebell now and wallflower waved ; 
In the rude guard-room, where of yore 
Their weary hours the warders wore, 
Now, while the cheerful fagots blaze. 
On the paved floor the spindle plays ; 
The flanking guns dismounted lie. 
The moat is ruinous and dry, 
The grim portcullis gone — and all 
The fortress turn'd to peaceful Hall. 



But yet precautions, lately ta'en, 

Show'd danger's day revived again ; 

The court-yard wall show'd marks of care, 

The falFn defences to repair, 

Lending such strength as might withstand. 

The insult of marauding band. 

The beams once more were taught to bear 

The trembling drawbridge into air, 

And not, till question'd o'er and o'er, 

For Wilfrid oped the jealous door. 



And when he enter'd, bolt and bar 

Resumed their place with sullen jar ; 
Then, as he cross'd the vaulted porch, 
The old gray porter raised his torch. 
And view'u him o'er, from foot to head, 
Ere to the hall his steps he led. 
That huge old hall, of knightly state. 
Dismantled seem'd and desolate. 
The moon through transom-shafts of stone. 
Which cross'd the latticed oriels, shone. 
And by the mournful light she gave, 
The Gothic vault seem'd funeral cave. 
Pennon and banner waved no more 
O'er beams of stag and tusks of boar. 
Nor glimmering arms were marshall'd seen 
To glance those sylvan spoils between. 
Those arms, those ensigns, borne away, 
Accomplish'd Rokeby's brave array, 
But all were lost on Marston's day! 
Yet here and there the moonbeams fall 
Where armor yet adorns the wall, 
Cumbrous of size, uncouth to sight, 
And useless in the modern fight ! 
Like veteran relic of the wars. 
Known only by neglected scars. 



Matilda soon to greet him came. 
And bade them light the evening flame ; 
Said, all for parting was prepared, 
And tarried but for Wilfrid's guard. 
But then, reluctant to unfold 
His father's avarice of gold. 
He hinted, that lest jealous eye 
Should on their precious burden pry, 
He judged it best the castle gate 
To enter when the night wore late ; 
And therefore he had left command 
With those he trusted of his band, 
That they should be at Rokeby met. 
What time the midnight-watch was set. 
Now Redmond came, whose anxious care 
Till then was busied to prepare 
All needful, meetly to arrange 
The mansion for its mournful change. 
With Wilfrid's care and kindness pleased 
His cold unready hand he seized. 
And press'd it, till his kindly strain 
The gentle youth return'd again. 
Seem'd as between them this was said, 
'• A while let jealousy be dead ; 
And let our contest be, whose care 
Shall best assist this helpless fair." 



There was no speech the truce to bind, 
It was a compact of the mind,^ 





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212 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 






A generous thought, at once impress'd 


The porter, all unmoved, replied, — 




On either rival's generous breast. 


" Depart in peace, with Heaven to guide ; 






Matilda well the secret took, 


If longer by the gate thou dwell. 






From sudden change of mien and look ; 


Trust me, thou shalt not part so well." 






And — for not small had been her fear 








Of jealous ire and danger near — 


VIII. 






Felt, even in her dejected state, 


With somewhat of appealing look, 






A joy beyond the reach of fate. 


The harper's part young Wilfrid took : 






They closed beside the chimney's blaze, 


" These notes so wild and ready thrill, 






And talk'd and hoped for happier days, 


They show no vulgar minstrel's skill ; 






And lent their spirits' rising glow 


Hard were his task to seek a home 






A while to gild impending woe ; — 


More distant, since the night is come , 






High privilege of youthful time, 


And for his faith I dare engage— 






Worth all the pleasures of our prime ! 


Your Harpool's blood is sour'd by age 






The bickering fagot sparkled bright. 


His gate, once readily display'd, 






And gave the scene of love to sight. 


To greet the friend, the poor to aid. 






Bade Wilfrid's cheek more lively glow, 


Now even to me, though known of old, 






Play'd on Matilda's neck of snow, 


Did but reluctantly unfold." 






Her nut-brown curls and forehead high, 


" blame not, as poor Harpool's crime, 






And laugh'd in Redmond's azure eye. 


An evil of this evil time. 






Two lovers by the maiden sate. 


He deems dependent on his care 






Without a glance of jealous hate ^ 


The safety of his patron's heir. 






The maid her lovers sat between, 


Nor judges meet to ope the tower 






With open brow and equal mien ; — 


To guest unknown at parting hour, 






It is a sight but rarely spied, 


Urging his duty to excess 






Thanks to man's wrath and woman's pride. 


Of rough and stubborn faithfulness. 
For this poor harper, I would fain 






VII. 


He may relax : — Hark to his strain ! "— 






While thus in peaceful guise they sate, 


IX. 






A knock alarm'd the outer gate. 








And ere the tardy porter stirr'd. 


SONG RESUMED. 






The tinkling of a harp was heard. 


" I have song of war for knight, 






A manly voice of mellow swell, 


Lay of love for lady bright. 






Bore burden to the music well. 


Fairy tale to lull the heir. 
Goblin grim the maids to scare. 






SONG. 


Dark the night, and long till day, 






" Summer eve is gone and past, 


Do not bid me farther stray 1 






Summer dew is falling fast ; — 


" Rokeby's lords of martial fame, 






I have wander'd all the day, 


I can count them name by name ; 






Do not bid me farther stray ! 


Legends of their line there be. 






Gentle hearts, of gentle kin, 


Known to few, but known to me : 






Take the wandering harper in ! " 


If you honor Rokeby's kin. 






But the stern porter answer gave, 


Take the wandering harper in ! 






With " Get thee hence, thou strolling knave ; 


" Rokeby's lords had fair regard 






The king wants soldiers ; war, I trow, 


For the harp, and for the bard : 
Baron's race throve never well. 






Were meeter trade for such as thou." 






At this unkind reproof, again 


Where the curse of riiinstrel fell. 






Answer'd the ready Minstrel's strain. 


If you love that noble kin. 






SONG RESUMED. 


Take the weary harper in ! " — 






" Bid not me, in battle-field, 


" Hark ! Harpool parleys — there is hope," 






Buckler lift, or broadsword wield ! 


Said Redmond, " that the gate will ope."— 


^ 




All my strength and all my art 


— " For all thy brag and boast, I trow, 






Is to touch the gentle heart. 


Nought know'st thou of the Felon Sow," 






With the wizard notes that ring 


Quoth Harpool, " nor how Greta-side 






From the peaceful minstrel-string." 


She roam'd, and Rokeby forest wide ; 


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w how Ralph Rokeby gave the beast 


For in this calm domestic boimd 




To Richmond's friars to make a feast. 


Were all Matilda's pleasures found. 






Of Gilbert Griffinson the tale 


That hearth, my sire was wont to grace, 






Goes, and of gallant Peter Dale, 


Full soon may be a stranger's place; 






That well could strike with sword amain, 


This hall, in which a child I play'd. 






And of the valiant son of Spain, 


Like thine, dear Redmond, lowly laid. 






Friar IMiddleton, and blithe Sir Ralph : 


The bramble and the thorn may braid ; 






There was a jest to make us laugh ! 


Or, pass'd for aye from me and mine, 






If thou canst tell it, in yon shed 


It ne'er may shelter Rokeby's line. 






Thou'st M'on thy supper and thy bed." 


Yet is this consolation given. 

My Redmond — 'tis the will of Heaven." 






X. 


Her word, her action, and her phrase, 






Matilda smiled ; " Cold hope," said she, 


Were kindly as in early days ; 






" From Harpool's love of minstrelsy ! 


For cold reserve had lost its power, 






But, for this harper, may we dare, 


In sorrow's sympathetic hour. 






Redmond, to mend his coucli and fare ? " — 


Young Redmond dared not trust his voice 






" 0, ask me not ! — At minstrel-string 


But rather had it been his choice 






My heart from infancy would spring ; 


To share that melancholy hour. 






Nor can I hear its simplest strain, 


Than, arm'd witii all a chieftain's power. 






But it brings Erin's dream again, 


In full possession to enjoy 






When placed by Owen Lysagh's knee, 


Slieve-Donard wide, and Clandeboy. 






(The Filea of O'Neale was he,''9 








A blind and bearded man, whose eld 


XII. 






Was sacred as a prophet's held,) 








I've seen a ring of rugged kerne, 


The blood left Wilfrid's ashen cheek ; 






With aspects shaggy, wild, and stern, 


Matilda sees, and hastes to speak. — 






Enchanted by the master's lay. 


" Happy in friendship's ready aid, 






Linger around the livelong day. 


Let all my murmurs here be staicl .' 






Shift from wild rage to wilder glee, 


And Rokeby's Maiden will not part 






To love, to grief, to ecstasy. 


From Rokeby's hall with moody heart. 






And feel each varied change of soul 


This night at least, for Rokeby's fame, 






Obedient to the bard's control. ^- 


The hospitable hearth shall flame. 






Ah, Clandeboy ! thy friendly floor 


And, ere its native heir retire, 






Slieve-Donard's oak shall light no more ; 5° 


Find for the wanderer rest and fire. 






Nor Owen's harp, beside the blaze. 


While this poor harper, by the blaze, 






Tell maiden's love, or hero's praise ! 


Recounts the tale of other days. 






The mantling brambles hide thy hearth. 


Bid Harpool ope the door with speed. 






Centre of hospitable mirth ; 


Admit him, and relieve each need. — 






All undistinguish'd in the glade, 


Meantime, kind Wycliffe, wilt thou try 






My sires' glad home is prostrate laid. 


Thy minstrel skill ? — Nay, no reply — 






Their vassals wander wide and far. 


And look not sad ! — I guess thy thought, 






Serve foreign lords in distant war. 


Thy verse with laurels would be bought ; 






And now the stranger's sons enjoy 


And poor Matilda, landless now. 






The lovely woods of Clandeboy ! " 


Has not a garland for thy brow. 






He spoke, and proudly turn'd aside. 


True, I must leave sweet Rokeby's glades 






The starting tear to dry and hide. 


Nor wander more in Greta's shader ; 
But sure, no rigid jailer, thou 






XI. 


Wilt a short prison-walk allow. 






Matilda's dark and soften 'd eye 


Where summer flowers grow wild 






Was glistening ere O'Neale's was dry. 


will, 






I-Ler hand upon his arm she laid, — 


On Marwood-chase and Toller Hill ; 5' 






" It is the will of Heaven," she said. 


Then holly green and lily gay 




^ 


_ " And think'st thou, Redmond, I can part 


Shall twine in guerdon of thy lay.'' _ , 






From this loved home with lightsome 


The mournful youth, a space aside, 






heart, 


To tune Matilda's harp applied ; 






Leaving to wild neglect whate'er 


And then a low sad descant rung, 






Even from my infancy was dear ? 


As prelude to the lay he sung. 








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2T4 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



THE CYPRESS WREATH. 

O, Lady, twine no wreath for me, 
Or twine it of the cypress-tree ! 
Too lively glow the lilies light, 
The varnish'd holly's all too bright, 
The May-flower and the eglantine 
May shade a brow less sad than mine ; 
But, Lady, weave no wreath for me, 
Or weave it of the cypress-tree! 

Let dimpled Mirth his temples twine. 
With tendrils of the laughing vine ; 
The manly oak, the pensive yew. 
To patriot and to sage be due ; 
The myrtle bough bids lovers live, 
But that Matilda will not give ; 
Then, Lady, twine no wreath for me. 
Or twine if of the cypress-tree ! 

Let merry England proudly rear 
Her blended roses, bought so dear ; 
Let Albin bind her bonnet blue 
With heath and harebell dipp'd in dew; 
On favor' d Erin's crest be seen 
The flower she loves of emerald green — 
But, Lady, twine no wreatli for me. 
Or twine it of the cypress-tree. 

Strike the wild harp, while maids prepare 
The ivy meet for minstrel's hair ; 
And, while his crown of laurel-leaves, 
With bloody hand the victor weaves. 
Let the loud trump his triumph tell ; 
But, when you hear the passing-bell. 
Then, Lady, twine a wreath for me, 
And twine it of the cypress-tree. 

Yes ! twine for me the cypress bough ; 
But, O Matilda, twine not now ! 
Stay till a few brief months are past. 
And I have look'd and loved my last ' 
When villagers my shroud bestrew 
With pansies, rosemary, and rue, — 
Then, Lady,' weave a wreatli for me, 
And weave it of the cypress-tree, 



O'Neale observed the starting tear. 

And spoke with kind and blithesome 

cheer — 
" No, noble Wilfrid ! ere the day 
When mourns the land thy silent lay. 
Shall many a wreath be freely wove 
By hand of friendship and of love. 
I would not wish that rigid Fate 
Had doom'd thee to a captive's state. 



Whose hands are bound by honor's law, 
Who wears a sword he must not draw ; 
But were it so, m Minstrel pride 
The land together would we ride, 
On prancing steeds, like harpers old, 
Bound for the halls of barons bold, 
Each lover of the lyre we'd seek, 
From Michael's Mount to Skiddaw'; 

Peak, 
Survey wild Albin's mountain strand, 
And roam green Erin's lovely land. 
While thou the gentler souls should move 
With lay of pity and of love. 
And I, thy mate, in rougher strain. 
Would sing of war and warriors slain. 
Old England's bards were vanquislvd then, 
And Scotland's vaunted Hawthornden, 
And, silenced on lernian shore, 
M'Curtin's harp should charm no more ! " 
In lively mood he spoke, to wile 
From Wilfrid's woe-worn cheek a smile. 



" But," said Matilda, " ere thy name. 
Good Redmond, gain its destined fame, 
Say, wilt thou kindly deign to call 
Thy brother-minstrel to the hall ? 
Bid all the household, too, attend. 
Each in his rank a humble friend ; 
I know their faithful hearts will grieve. 
When their poor Mistress takes her leave 
So let the horn and beaker flow 
To mitigate their parting woe." 
The harper came ; — in youth's first prime 
Himself ; in mode of olden time 
His garb was fashion'd, to express 
The ancient English minstrel's dress,'^ 
A seemly gown of Kendal green, 
With gorget closed of silver sheen ; 
His harp in silken scarf was slung, 
And by his side an anlace hung. 
It seem'd some masquer's quaint array. 
For revel or for holiday. 



He made obeisance with a free 
Yet studied air of courtesy. 
Each look and accent, framed to please, 
Seem'd to affect a playful ease ; 
His face was of that doubtful kind. 
That wins the eye, but not the mind ; 
Yet harsh it seem'd to deem amiss 
Of brow so young and smooth as this. 
His was the subtle look and sly. 
That, spying all, seems nought to spy ; 
Round all the group his glances stole, 
Unmark'd themselves, to mark the whole 






f 



ROKEBY. 



215 



Yet sunk beneath Matilda's look, 
Nor could the eye of Redmond brook. 
To the suspicious, or the old, 
Subtile and dangerous and bold 
Had seem'd this self-invited guest ; 
But young our lovers, — and the rest, 
Wrapt in their sorrow and their fear 
At parting of their Mistress dear 
Tear-blinded to the Castle-hall 
Came as to bear her funeral paU. 



All that expression base was gone, 
When waked the guest his minstrel tone ; 
It fled at inspiration's call. 
As erst the demon fled from Saul. 
More noble glance he cast around, 
More free-drawn breath inspired the sound. 
His pulse beat bolder and more high, 
In all the pride of minstrelsy ! 
Alas ! too soon that pride was o'er. 
Sunk with the lay that bade it soar ! 
His soul resumed, with habit's chain, 
Its vices wild and follies vain. 
And gave the talent, with him born, 
To be a common cur&j and scorn- 
Such was the youth whom Rokeby's Maid, 
With condescending kindness, pray'd 
Here to renew the strains she loved. 
At distance heard and well approved. 



The Harp. 
I was a wild and wayward boy, 
My childhood scorn'd each childish toy, 
Retired from all, reserved and coy, 

To musing prone, 
I woo'd my solitary joy, 

My Harp alone. 

My youth, with bold Ambition's mood, 
Despised the humble stream and wood. 
Where my poor father's cottage stood, 

To fame unknown ; — 
What should my soaring views make good : 

My Harp alone ! 

Love came with all his frantic fire, 
And wild romance of vain desire : 
The baron's daughter heard my lyre, 

And praised the tone ; — 
What could presumptuous hope inspire ? 

My Harp alone ! 

At manhood's touch the bubble burst. 
And manhood's pride the vision curst, 



And all that had my folly nursed 

Love's sway to own ; 
Yet spared the spell that lull'd me first, 

My Harp alone ! 

Woe came with war, and want with woe ; 
And it was mine to undergo 
Each outrage of the rebel foe : — 

Can aught atone 
My fields laid waste, my cot laid low ? 

My Harp alone ! 

Ambition's dreams I've seen depart. 
Have rued of penury the smart. 
Have felt of love the venom'd dart, 

When hope was flown ; 
Yet rests one solace to my heart,— 

My Harp alone 1 

Then over mountain, moor, and hill. 
My faithful Harp, I'll bear thee still ; 
And when this life of want and ill 

Is wellnigh gone. 
Thy strings mine elegy shall thrill, 

My Harp alone 1 



" A pleasing lay ! " Matilda said ; 

But Harpool shook his old gray head, 

And took his baton and his torch. 

To seek his guard-room in the porch. 

Edmund observed, with sudden change, 

Among the strings his fingers range, 

Until they waked a bolder glee 

Of military melody ; 

Then paused amid the martial sound, 

And look'd with well-feign'd fear around ;— 

" None to this noble house belong," 

He said, " that would a Minstrel wrong, 

Whose fate has been, through good and ill 

To love his Royal Master still ; 

And with your honor'd leave, would fain 

Rejoice you with a loyal strain." 

Then, as assured by sign and look. 

The warlike tone again he took ; 

And Harpool stopp'd, and turn'd to hear 

A ditty of the Cavalier. 

XX. 

SONG. 

The Cavalier. 

While the dawn on the mountain was mrsty 

and gray. 
My true love has mounted his iteed and 

away 



JH 




2l6 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Over hill, over valley, o'er dale, and o'er 

down : 
Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights 

for the Crown ! 

He has doff' d the silk doublet the breast- 
plate to bear, 

He has placed the steel-cap o'er his long 
flowing hair, 

From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword 
hangs down, — 

Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights 
for the Crown ! 

For the rights of fair England that broad- 
sword he draws, 

Her King is his leader, her Church is his 
cause ; 

His watchword is honor, his pay is re- 
nown, — 

God strike with the Gallant that strikes for 
the Crown ! 

They may boast of their Fairfax, their Wal- 
ler, and all 

The round-headed rebels of Westminster 
Hall ; 

But tell these bold traitors of London's 
proud town. 

That the spears of the North have encircled 
the Crown. 

There's Derby and Cavendish, dread of 
their foes ; 

There's Erin's High Ormond, and Scot- 
land's Montrose ! 

Would you match the base Skippon, and 
Massey, and Brown, 

With the Barons of England, that fight for 
the Crown ? 

Now joy to the crest of the brave Cavalier ! 
Be his banner unconquer'd, resistless his 

spear. 
Till in peace and in triumph his toils he 

may drown, 
In a pledge to fair England, her Church, 

and her Crown. 



" Alas ! " Matilda said, " that strain. 
Good harper, now is heard in vain ! 
The time has been, at such a sound, 
When Rokeby's vassals gather'd round. 
An hundred manly hearts would bound ; 
But now the stirring verse we hear, 
Like trump in dying soldier's ear ! 
Listless and sad the notes we own. 
The power to answer them is flown. 



Yet not without his meet applause, 

Be he that sings the rightful cause, 

Even when the crisis of its fate 

To human eye seems desperate. 

While Rokeby's Heir such power retains, 

Let this slight guerdon pay thy pains: — 

And, lend thy liarp ; I fain would try, 

If my poor skill can aught supply. 

Ere yet I leave my father's ball, 

To mourn the cause in which we fall." 

X.XII. 

The harper, with a downcast look. 
And trembling hand, her bounty took, — 
As yet, the conscious pride of art 
Had steel'd him in his treacherous part ; 
A powerful spring' of force unguess'd, 
That hath each gentler mood suppress'd 
And reign'd in many a human breast ; 
From his that plans the red campaign, 
To his that wastes the woodland reign. 
The failing wing, the blood-shot eye, — 
The sportsman's marks with apathy, 
Each feeling of his victim's ill 
Drown'd in his own successful skill. 
The veteran, too, who now no more 
Aspires to head the battle's roar. 
Loves still the triumph of his art. 
And traces on the pencill'd chart, 
Some stern invader's destined way, 
Through blood and ruin, to his prey ; 
Patriots to death, and towns to flame, 
He dooms to raise another's name, 
And shares the guilt, though not the fame, 
What pays him for his span of time 
Spent in premeditating crime ? 
What against pity arms his heart ? — 
It is the conscious pride of art. 

XXIII. 

But principles in Edmund's mind 
Were baseless, vague, and undefined, 
His soul, like bark with rudder lost. 
On Passion's changeful tide was tost, 
Nor Vice nor Virtue had the power 
Beyond the impression of the hour ; 
And, O 1 when Passion rules, how rare 
The hours that fall to Virtue's share ! 
Yet now she roused the — for the pride, 
That lack of sterner guilt supplied. 
Could scarce support him when arose 
The lay that mourned Matilda's woes. 

SONG. 

The Farewell. 
The sound of Rokeby's woods 1 hear. 
They mingle with the song : 






ROKEBY. 



Dark Greta's voice is in mine ear 

I must not hear them long. 
From every loved and native haunt 

The native Heir must stray, 
And, like a ghost whom sunbeams daunt, 

Must part before the day. 

Soon from the halls my fathers rear'd 

Their scutcheons may descend. 
A line so long beloved and fear'd 

May soon obscurely end. 
No longer here Matilda's tone 

Shall bid those echoes swell ; 
Yet shall they hear her proudly own 

The cause in which we fell. 

The Lady paused, and then again 
Resumed the lay in loftier strain. 

XXIV. 

Let our halls and towers decay, 

Be our name and line forgot. 
Lands and manors pass away, — 

We but share our Monarch's lot. 
If no more our annals show 

Battles won and banners taken, 
Still in death, defeat, and woe. 

Ours be loyalty unshaken ! 

Constant still in danger's hour, 

Princes own'd our fathers' aid ; 
Lands and honors, wealth' and power. 

Well their loyalty repaid. 
Perish wealth, and power, and pride ! 

Mortal boons by mortals given ; 
But let constancy abide, — 

Constancy's the gift of Heaven. 

XXV. 

While thus Matilda's lay was heard, 
A thousand thoughts in Edmund stirr'd. 
In peasant life he might have known 
As fair a face, as sweet a tone ; 
But village notes could ne'er supply 
That rich and varied melody ; 
And ne'er in cottage-maid was seen 
The easy dignity of mien, 
Claiming respect, yet waving state. 
That marks the daughters of the great. 
Yet not, perchance, had these alone 
His scheme of purposed guilt o'erthrown ; 
But while her energy of mind 
Superior rose to griefs combined, 
Lending its kindling to her eye, 
Giving her form new majesty, — 
To Edmund's thought Matilda seem'd 
The very object he had dream'd ; 
When, long ere guilt his soul had known. 
In Winston bowers he mused alone. 




Taxing his fancy to combine 
The face, the air, the voice divine, 
Of princess fair, by cruel fate 
Reft of her honors, power, and state, 
Till to her rightful realm restored 
By destined hero's conquering sword. 

XXVI. 

" Such was my vision ! " Edmund thought 

" And have I, then, the ruin wrought 

Of such a maid, that fancy ne'er 

In fairest vision form'd her peer } 

Was it my hand that could unclose 

The postern to her ruthless foes .'' 

Foes, lost to honor, law, and faith, 

Their kindest mercy sudden death ! 

Have I done this ? 1 1 who have swore. 

That if the globe such angel bore, 

I would have traced its circle broad, 

To kiss the ground on which she trode ! — 

And now — O ! would that earth would rive 

And close upon me while alive ! — 

Is there no hope ? Is all then lost? — 

Bertram's already on his post ! 

Even now, beside the Hall's arch'd door, 

I saw his shadow cross the floor 1 

He was to wait my signal strain— 

A little respite thus we gain : 

By what I heard the menials say, 

Young ^^'ycliffe's troop are on their way — 

Alarm precipitates the crime ! 

My harp must wear away the time." — 

And then, in accents faint and low. 

He falter'd forth a tale of woe. 

XXVII. 
BALLAD. 

" And whither would you lead me then ? " 
Quoth the Friar of orders gray ; 

And the Ruffians twam replied again, 
" By a dying woman to pray " 

' I see," he said, "a lovely sight, 

A sight bodes little harm, 
A lady as a lily bright, 

With an infant on her arm." — 

" Then do thine office, Friar gray, 

And see thou shrive her free ? 
Else shall the sprite, that parts to-night. 

Fling all its guilt on thee. 

" Let mass be said, and trentals read, 
When thou'rt to convent gone, 

And bid the bell of St. Benedict 
Toll out its deepest tone." 

The shrift is done, the Friar is gone, 
Blindfolded as he came — 






SCOTT'S POE TIC A L IVOR KS. 



Next momin?;, all in Littlecot Hall ^3 
Were weeping for their dame. 

Wild Barrel is an alter'd man, 

The village crones can tell ; 
He looks pale as clay, and strives to pray, 

It" he heai'S the convent bell. 

If prince or peer cross Darrell's way, 

He'll beard him in his pride — 
Lf he meet a Friar of orders gray, 

He droops and turns aside. 

XXVIII. 

" Harper ! methinks thy magic lays," 

Matilda said, " can goblins raise 1 

Wellnigh my fancy can discern, 

Near the dark porch, a visage stern ; 

E'en now, in yonder shadowy nook, 

I see it 1 — Redmond, Wilfrid, look ! — 

A human form distinct and clear — 

God for thy mercy 1 — It draws near ! " 

She saw too true. Stride after stride, 

The centre of that chamber wide 

Fierce Bertram gain'd ; then made a stand. 

And, proudly waving with his hand. 

Thundered — " Be still, upon our lives ! — 

He bleeds who speaks, he dies who strives." 

Behind their chief, the robber crew 

Forth from the darken'd portal drew 

In silence — -save that echo dread 

Return'd their heavy measured tread. 

The lamp's uncertain lustre gave 

Their arms to gleam, their plumes to wave ; 

File after file in order pass, 

Like forms on Banquo's mystic glass. 

Then, halting at their leader's sign, 

At once they forin'd and curved their line. 

Hemming within its crescent drear 

Their victims like a herd of deer. 

Another sign, and to the aim 

Levell'd at once their muskets came, 

As waiting but their chieftain's word. 

To make their fatal volley heard. 



Back in a heap the menials drew ; 
Yet, even in mortal terror, true, 
Their pale and startled group oppose 
Between Matilda and the foes. 
" O, haste thee, Wilfrid ! " Redmond cried ; 
" Undo that wicket by thy side ! 
Bear hence Matilda — gain the wood — 
The pass may be a while made good — 
Thy band, ere this, must sure be nigh — 
O speak not — dally not — but fly 1 " 
While yet the crowd their motions hide, 
Through the low wicket door they glide. 



Through vaulted passages they wind, 
In Gothic intricacy twined ; 
Wilfrid half led, and half he bore, 
Matilda to the postern-door, 
And safe beneath the forest tree. 
The Lady stands at liberty 
The moonbeams, the fresh gale's caress. 
Renew 'd suspended consciousness ; — 
" Where's Redmond ? " eagerly she cries ; 
" Thou answer'st not — he dies ! he diesl 
And thou hast left him, all bereft 
Of mortal aid— with murderers left ! 
I know it well — he would not yield 
His sword to man — his doom is seal'd ! 
For my scorn'd life, which thou hast bough 
At price o£ his, 1 thank thee not." 

XXX. 

The unjust reproach, the angjy look, 

The heart of Wilfrid could not brook. 

" Lady,'' he said, " my band is near. 

In safety thou mayst rest thee here. 

For Rednion'ds death thou shalt not 

mourn. 
If mine can buy his safe return." 
He turn'd away — his heart throbb'd high. 
The tear was bursting from his eye ; 
The sense of her injustice press'd 
Upon the Maid's distracted breast, — 
" Stay, Wilfrid, stay ! all aid is vain I " 
He heard, but turn'd him not again j 
He reaches now the postern-door, 
Now enters — and is seen no more. 

XXXI. 

With all the agony that e'er 
Was gender'd 'twixt suspense and fear, 
She watch'd the line of windows tall, 
Whose Gothic lattice lights the Hall, 
Distinguish'd by the paly red 
The lamps in dim reflection shed, 
While all beside in wan moonlight 
Each grated casement glimmer' d white. 
No sight of harm, no sound of ill, 
It is a deep and midnight still. 
Who look'd upon the scene had guess'd 
All in the Castle were at rest: 
When sudden on the window shone 
A lightning flash, just seen and gone ! 
A shot is heard — Again the flame 
Flash'd thick and fast — a volley came ! 
Then echo'd wildly, from within, 
Of shout and scream the mingled din. 
And weapon-crash and maddening cry, 
Of those who kill, and those who die ! — 
As fill'd the Hall with sulphurous smoke, 
More red, more dark, the death-flask 
broke ; 







ROKEB Y. 



219 



And forms were on tJie lattice cast, 
That struck, or struggled, as they past. 

XXXII. 

VVliat sounds upon the midnight wind 
Approach so rapidly behind ? 
It is, it is, the tramp of steeds, 
Matilda hears the sound, she speeds, 
Seiz3s upon the leader's rein — 
" O, haste to aid, ere aid be vain ! 
Fly to the postern — gain the Hall ! " 
From saddle spring the troopers all ; 
Their gallant steeds, at liberty. 
Run wild along the moonlight lea. 
But, ere they burst upon the scene. 
Full stubborn had the conflict been. 
When Bertram mark'd Matilda's flight, 
It gave the signal for the fight ; 
And Rokeby's veterans, seem'd with scars 
Of Scotland's and of Erin's vi^ars. 
Their momentary panic o'er, 
Stood to the arms which then they bore 
(For they were weapon'd, and prepared 
Their mistress on her way to guard.) 
Then cheer'd them to the fight of O'Neale, 
Then peal'd the shot, and clash'd the steel ; 
The war-smoke soon with sable breath 
Darken'd the scene of blood and death, 
While on the few defenders close 
The Bandits, with redoubled blows. 
And, twice driven back, yet fierce and fell 
Renew the charge v/ith frantic yell. 



Wilfrid has fall'ri — but o'er him stood 
Young Redmond, soil'd with smoke and 

blood, 
Cheering his mates with heart and hand 
Still to make good their desperate stand. 
*' Up, comrades, up ! In Rokeby halls 
Ne'er be it said our courage falls. 
What 1 faint ye for their savage cry, 
Or do the smoke-wreaths daunt your eye ? 
Tliese rafters have return'd a shout 
As loud as Rokeby's wassail rout, 
As thick a smoke these hearths have given 
At Hallow-tide or Christmas-even.^-* 
Stand to it yet ! renew the fight, 
For Rokeby's and Matilda's right ! 
These slaves ! they dare not, hand to hand. 
Bide buffet from a true man's brand." 
Impetuous, active, fierce, and young, 
Upon the advancing foes he sprung. 
Woe to the wretch at whom is bent 
His brandish'd falchion's sheer descent 1 
Backward they scatter'd as he came, 
Like wolves before the levin flame. 



When, 'mid their howling conclave driven, 
Hath glanced the thunderbolt of heaven, 
Bertram rush'd on — but Harpool clasp'd 
His knees, although in death lie gasp'd, 
His falling corpse before him flung, 
And round the trammeli'd ruffian clung. 
Just then, the soldiers fill'd the dome, 
And, shouting, charged the felons home 
So fiercely, that, in panic dread, 
They broke, they yielded, fell, or fled. 
Bertram's stern voice they heed no more, 
Though heard above the battle's roar ; 
While, trampling down the dying man. 
He strove, with volley'd threat and ban, 
In scorn of odds, in fate's despite, 
To rally up the desperate fight. 



Soon murkier clouds the Hall enfold 
Than e'er from battle-thunders roll'd', 
So dense, the combatants scarce know 
To aim or to avoid the blow. 
Smothering and blindfold grows the fight- 
But soon shall dawn a dismal light 1 
'Mid cries, and clashing arms, there came 
The hollow sound of rushing flame ; 
New horrors on the tumult dire 
Arise — the Castle is on fire I 
Doubtful, if chance had cast the brand, 
Or frantic Bertram's desperate hand. 
Matilda saw — for frequent broke 
From the dim casements gusts of smoke. 
Yon tower, which late so clear defined 
On the fair hemisphere reclined. 
That, pencill'd on its azure pure, 
The eye could count each embrazure, 
Now, swathed within the sweeping cloud, 
Seems giant-spectre in his shroud ; 
Till, from each loop-nole flashing light, 
A spout of fire shines ruddy bright, 
And, gathering to united glare. 
Streams high into the midnight air ; 
A dismal beacon, far and wide 
That waken'd Greta's slumbering side, 
Soon all beneath, through gallery long. 
And pendant arch the fire flash'd strong, 
Snatching whatever could maintain, 
Raise, or extend, its furious reign ; 
Startling, with closer cause of dread, 
The females who the conflict fled, 
And now rush'd forth upon the plain. 
Filling the air with clamors vain. 

XXXV. 

But ceased not yet, the Hall within, 
The shriek, the shout, the camago-dm. 







SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Till bursting lattices give proof 

The flames have caught the rafter'd roof. 

What ! wait they till its beams amain 

Crash on the slayers and the slain ? 

The alarm is caught — the drawbridge falls, 

The warriors hurry from the walls, 

But, by the conflagration's light, 

Upon the lawn renew the fight. 

Each struggling .elon down was hew'd, 

Not one could gain the sheltering wood ; 

Bat forth the affrighted harper sprung. 

And to Matilda's robe he clung. 

Her shriek, entreaty, and command, 

Stopp'd the pursuer's lifted hand. 

Uenzil and he alive were ta'en ; 

The rest, save Bertram, all are slain. 

X.X.WI. 

And where is Bertram ? — Soaring high. 
The general flame ascends the sky ; 
In gather'd group the soldiers gaze 
Upon the broad and roaring blaze. 
When, like infernal demon, sent. 
Red from his penal element, 
To plague and to pollute the air, — 
His face all gore, on fire his hair. 
Forth from the central mass of smoke 
The giant form of Bertram broke ! 
His brandish'd sword on high he rears. 
Then plunged among opposing spears ; 
Round his left arm his mantle, truss'd, 
Received and foil'd three lances' thrust ; 
Nor these his headlong course withstood. 
Like reeds he snapp'd tlie tough ash-wood. 
In vain his foes around him clung ; 
With matchless force aside he flung 
Their boldest, — as the bull, at bay, 
Tosses the ban-dogs from his way. 
Through forty foes his patli he made. 
And safely gain'd the forest glade. 

XXXVIl. 

Scarce was this final conflict o'er. 
When from the postern Redmond bore 
Wilfrid, who, as of life bereft, 
1 lad in the fatal hall been left, 
Deserted there by all his train : 
But Redmond saw, and turn'd -again. — 
Beneath an oak he laid him down, 
That in the blaze gleam'd ruddy brown. 
And then his mantle's clasp undid ; 
Matilda held his drooping head. 
Till, given to breathe the freer air, 
Returning life repaid their care. 
He gazed on them with heavy sigh, — 
" I could have wish'd even thus to die ! " 
No more he said — for now with speed 
Each trooper had regain'd his steed : 



The ready palfreys stood array'd. 
For Redmond and for Rokeby's Maid ; 
Two Wilfrid on his horse sustain, 
One leads his charger by the rein, 
But oft Matilda look'd behind, 
As up the Vale of Tees they wind. 
Where far the mansion of her sires 
Beacon'd thfe dale with midnight fires. 
In glooiTiy arch above them spread, 
The clouded heaven lower'd bloody red ; 
Beneath, in sombre light, the flood 
Appear'd to roll in waves of blood. 
Then, one by one, was heard to fall 
The Tower, the donjon-keep, the hall, 
Each rushing down with thunder sound, 
A space the conflagration drown 'd 
Till, gathering strength, again it rose, 
Announced its triumph in its close. 
Shook wide its light the landscape o'er, 
Then sunk, — and Rokeby was no more!. 



CANTO SIXTH. 



The summer sun whose early power 
Was wont to gild Matilda's bower. 
And rouse her with his matin ray 
Her duteous orisons to pay, 
That morning sun had three times seen 
The flowers unfold oo Rokeby green, 
But sees no more the slumbers fly 
From fair Matilda's hazel eye ; 
That morning sun has three times broke 
On Rokeby's glades of elm and oak. 
But, rising from their sylvan screen, 
Marks no gray turrets glance between. 
A shapeless mass lie keep and tower. 
That, hissing to the morning sliower, 
Can but with smouldering vapor pay 
The early smile of summer day. 
The peasant, to his labor bound, 
Pauses to view the blacken'd mound. 
Striving, amid the ruin'd space, 
Each well-remember'd spot to trace. 
That length of frail and fire-scorch'd wall 
Once screen'd the hospitable hall ; 
When yonder broken arch was whole, 
'T was there was dealt the weekly dole ; 
And where yon tottering columns nod. 
The chapel sent the hymn to God. — 
So flits the worlds uncertain span ! 
Nor zeal for God, nor love for man, 
Gives mortal monuments a date 
Beyond the power of Time and Fate. 




«— f- 





ROKEB V. 



22 L 



The towers must share the buildeir's doorr. ; 
Ruin is theirs, and his a tomb : 
But better boon benignant Heaven 
To Faith and Charity has given, 
And bids the Christian hope sublime 
Transcend the bounds o£ Fate and Time. 



Now the third night of summer came, 

Since that which witness'd Rokeby's flame. 

On Brignall cliffs and Scargill brake 

The owlet's homilies awake. 

The bittern scream'd from rush and flag, 

The raven slumber'4 on his crag. 

Forth from his den the otter drew, — 

Grayling and trout their tyrant knew. 

As between reed and sedge he peers, 

With fierce round snout and sharpen'd ears, 

Or prowling by the moonbeam cool, 

Watches the stream or swims the pool , — 

Perch'd on his wonted eyrie high, 

Sleep seal'd the tercelet's wearied eye, 

That all the day had watch'd so well 

The cushat dart across the dell. 

In dubious beam reflected shone 

That lofty cliff of pale gray stone, 

Beside whose base the secret cave 

To rapine late a refuge gave. 

The crag's wild crest of copse and yew 

On Greta's breast dark shadows threw ; 

Shadows that met or shunn'd the sight, 

With every change of fitful light ; 

As hope and fear alternate chase 

Our course through life's uncertain race. 



Gliding by crag and copsewood green, 
A solitary form was seen 
To trace with stealthy pace the V7old, 
Like fox that seeks the midnight fold, 
And pauses oft, and cowers dismay'd. 
At every breath that stirs the shade. 
He passes now the ivy bush, — 
The owl has seen him, and is hush ; 
He passes now the dodder'd oak, — 
He heard the startled raven croak; 
Lower and lower he descends. 
Rustle the leaves, the brushwood bends ; 
The otter hears him tread the shore. 
And dives, and is beheld no more ; 
And by the cliff of pale gray stone 
The midnight wanderer stands alone. 
Methinks that by the moon we trace 
A well-remember'd form and face ! 
That stripling shape, that cheek so pale, 
Combine to tell a rueful tale, 



Of powers misused, of passion's force, 
Of guilt, of grief, and of remorse I 
'Tis Edmund's eye, at every sound 
That flings that guilty glance around ; 
'Tis Edmund's trembling haste divides 
The brushv/ood that the cavern hides ; 
And, when its narrow porch lies bare, 
'Tis Edmund's form that enters there. 

IV. 

His flint and steel have sparkled bright, 

A lamp hath lent the cavern light. 

Fearful and quick his eye surveys 

Each angle of the gloomy maze. 

Since last he left that stern abode, 

It seem'd as none its floor had trode ; 

Untouch'd appear'd the various spoil. 

The purchase of his comrades' toil ; 

Masks and disguises grim'd with mud, 

Arms broken and defiled with blood. 

And all the nameless tools that aid 

Night-felons in their lawless trade, 

Upon the gloomy walls were hung, 

Or lay in nooks obscurely flung. 

Still on the sordid board appear 

The relics of the noontide cheer ; 

Flagons and emptied flasks were there. 

And bench o'erthrown, and shatter'd chair j 

And all around the semblance show'd, 

As when the final revel glow'd. 

When the red sun was setting fast. 

And parting pledge Guy Denzil past. 

" To Rokeby treasure-vaults ! " they 

quaff'd. 
And shouted loud and wildly laugh'd, 
Pour'd maddening from the rocky door, 
And parted — to return no more ! 
They found in Rokeby vaults theii 

doom, — 
A bloody death, a burning tomb ! 



There his own peasant dress he spies, 

Doff'd to assume that quaint disguise ; 

And, shuddering, thought upon his glee, 

When prank'd in garb of minstrelsy. 

" O, be the fatal art accurst," 

He cried, " that moved my folly first ; 

Till, bribed by bandit's base applause, 

I burst through God's and Nature's laws ! 

Three summer days are scantly past 

Since I have trod this cavern last, 

A thoughtless wretch, and prompt to err — 

But, O, as yet no murderer! 

Even now I list my comrades' cheer. 

That general laugh is in mine ear, 





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- 




Which raised mv pulse and steel'd my 


I deem'd, long since on Baliol's tower, 




heart, 


Your heads were warp'd with sun and 






J 1 As I rehearsed my treacherous part — 


shower. 






And would that all since then could seem 


Tell me the whole — and, mark ! nought e'er 






The phantom of a fever's dream ! 


Chafes me like falsehood, or like fear." 






But fatal Memory notes too well 


Gathering his courage to his aid. 






The horrors of the dying yell 


But trembhng still, the youth obey'd. 






From my despairing mates that broke, 








When flash'd the fire and roH'd the smoke ; 


VII. 






When the avengers shouting came, 


" Denzil and I two nights pass'd o'er 






And hemm'd us 'twixt the sword and 


In fetters on the dungeon floor. 






flame ! 


A guest the third sad morrow brought : 






My frantic flight, — the lifted brand, — 


Our hold dark Oswald Wycliffe sought, 






That angel's interposing hand ? ■ 


And eyed my comrade long askance, 






If, for my life from slaughter freed. 


With fix'd and penetrating glance. 






I yet could pay some grateful meed ! 


*Guy Denzil art thou call' d.? '—' The 






Perchance this object of my quest 


same.' — 






May aid ' ' — lie turn'd, nor spoke the rest. 


' At Court who served wild Buckinghame ; 
Thence banish'd, won a keeper's place, 
So Villiers will'd, in Marwood-chase ; 






VI, 


That lost — I need not tell thee why — 






Due northward from the rugged hearth, 


Thou madest thy wit thy wants supply. 






With paces five lie metes the earth, 


Then fought for Rokeby :— Have I guess'd 






Then toil'd with mattock to explore 


My prisoner right? ' — ' At thy behest.'— 






The entrails of the cabin floor. 


He paused a while, and then went on 






Nor paused till, deep beneath the ground, 


With low and confidential tone ; — 






His search a small steel casket found. 


Me, as I judge, not then he saw. 






Just as he stoop'd to loose its hasp. 


Close nestled in my couch of straw — 






His shoulder felt a giant grasp ; 


' List to me, Guy. Thou know'st the great 






He started, and look'd up aghast, 


Have frequent need of what they hate; 






Then shriek'd ! — 'Twas Bertram held him 


Hence, in their favor oft we see. 






fast. 


Unscrupled, useful men like thee. 






" Fear not ! " he said ; but who could hear 


Were I disposed ta bid thee live, 






That deep stern voice, and cease to fear. 


What pledge of faith hast thou to give ? 






"Fear not! — By Heaven, he shakes as 








much 


VIII. 






As partridge in the falcon's clutch : " — 


" The ready Fiend, who never yet 






He raised him, and unloosed his hold, 


Hath failed to sharpen Denzil's wit. 






While from the opening casket roll'd 


Prompted his Ue — ' His only child 






A chain and reliquaire of gold. 


Should rest his pledge.' — The Bare 






Bertram beheld it with surprise. 


smiled. 






Gazed on its fashion and device. 


And turn'd to me — ' Thou art his son.? ' 






Then, cheering Edmund as he could, 


I bow'd — our fetters were undone. 






Somewhat he smooth'd his rugged mood : 


And we were led to hear apart 






For still the youth's half-lifted eye 


A dreadful lesson of his art. 






Ouiver'd with terror's agony. 


Wilfrid, he said, his heir and son, 






And sidelong glanced, as to explore. 


Had fair Matilda's favor won ; 






In meditated flight, the door. 


And long since had their union been, 






" Sit," Bertram said, " from danger free : 


But for her father's bigot spleen. 






Thou canst not, and thou slialt not, flee. 


Whose brute and blindfold party-rage 






Chance brings me hither ; hill and plain 


Would, force per force, her hand engage 






- I've sought for refuge-place in vain. 


To a base kern of Irish earth, . 






t^ n And tell me now, thou aguish boy.. 


Unknown his lineage and his birth, ss r 






What makest thou here ? what means 


Save that a dying ruffian bore 






this toy .'' 


The infant brat to Rokeby door. 






Denzil and thou, 1 mark'd, were ta'en ; 


Gentle restraint, he said, would lead 






What lucky chance unbound your chain t 


Old Rokeby to enlarge his creed; 






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ROKEBY. 223 






But fair occasion he must find 


How earnest thou to thy freedom?" — 




For such restraint well-meant and kind, 


'• There 






The Knight being render'd to his clrarge 


Lies mystery more dark and rare. J [ 






But as a prisoner at large. 


In midst of Wycliffe's well-feign' d rage, \ 








A scroll was offer'd by a page. 






IX. 


Who told, a muffled horseman late 






" He schoord us in a well-forged tale, 


Had left it at the Castle-gate. 






Of scheme the Castle walls to scale, 


Ke broke the seal — his cheek show'd 






To which was leagued each Cavalier 


change. 






That dwells upon the Tyne and Wear ; 


Sudden, portentous, wild and strange ; 






That Rokeby, his parole forgot. 


The mimic passion of his eye 






Had dealt with us to aid the plot. 


Was turn'd to actual agony ; 






Such was the charge, which Denzil's zeal 


His hand like summer sapling shook, 






Of hate to Rokeby and O'Neale 


Terror and guilt were in his look. 






Proffer'd as witness, to make good, 


Denzil he judged, in time of need, 






Even though the forfeit were their blood. 


Fit counsellor for evil deed ; 






I scrupled, until o'er and o'er 


And thus apart his counsel broke. 






His prisoners' safety Wycliffe swore ; 


While with a ghastly smile he spoke : — 






And then — alas ! what needs there more ? 








I knew I should not live to say 


XI. 






The proffer I refused that day ; 


" ' As m the pageants of the stage, 






Ashamed to live, yet loth to die, 


The dead awake in this wild age. 






I soil'd me with their infamy ■ " 


Mortham — whom all men deem'd decreed 






"Poor youth," said Bertram, "wavering 


In his own deadly snare to bleed, 






still, 


Slain by a bravo, whom, o'er sea, 






Unfit alike for good or ill ! 


He train'd to aid in murdering me, — 






But what fell next ? " — " Soon as at large 


Mortham has 'scaped ! The coward shot 






Was scroli'd and sign'd our fatal charge. 


The steed, but harm'd the rider not.' " 






There never yet, on tragic stage. 


Here, with an execration fell. 






Was seen so well a painted rage 


Bertram leap'd up, and paced the cell :— 






As Oswald's show'd ! With ioud alarm 


" Thine own gray head, or bosom dark," 






He call'd his garrison to arm ; 


He mutter' d, " may be surer mark ! " 






From tower to tower, from post to post, 


Then sat, and sign'd to Edmund, pale 






He hurried as if all were lost ; 


With terror, to resume his tale. 






Consign'd to dungeon and to chain 


" Wycliffe went on : — ' Mark with what 






The good old Knight and all his train ; 


flights 






Warn'd each suspected Cavalier, 


Of wilder'd reverie he writes : — 






Within his limits, to appear 








To-morrow, at the hour of noon. 


THE LETTER. 






In the high church at Egliston."— 


'' ' Ruler of Mortham's destiny ! 
Though dead, thy victim lives to thee. 






X. 


Once had he all that binds to life. 






" Of Egliston ! — Even now I pass'd," 


A lovely child, a lovelier wife ; 






Said Bertram, " as the night closed fast ; 


Wealth, fame, and friendship, were his own- 






Torches and cressets gleam'd around, 


Thou gavest the word, and they are flown 






I heard the saw and hammer sound, 


Mark how he pays thee : — To thy hand 






And I could mark they toil'd to raise 


He yields his honors and his land. 






A scaffold, hung with sable baize, 


One boon premised ; — Restore his child! 






Which the grim headsman's scene dis- 


And, from his native land exiled, 






play'd. 


Mortham no more returns to claim 






Block, axe, and sawdust ready laid, 


His lands, his honors, or his name; 






Some evil deed will there be done, 


Refuse him this, and from the slain 






«] r» Unless Matilda wed his son ; — 


Thou shalt see Mortham rise again.' — ^ 


"> 




She loves him not — 'tis shrewdly guesj'd 








That Redmond rules the damsel's breast. ^ 


XII. 






This is a turn of Oswald's skill ; 


" This billet while the Baron read, 






But I may meet, and foil him still ; 


' His faltering accents show'd his dread. 








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SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



He press'd his forehead with liis palm, 
Then took a scornful tone and calm ; 
' Wild as the winds, as billows wild ! 
What wot I of his spouse or child ? 
Hither he brought a joyous dame, 
Unknown her lineage or her name : 
Her, in some frantic fit, he slew ; 
The nurse and child in fear withdrew. 
Heaven be my witness ! wist I where 
To find this youth, my kinsman's heir, — 
Unguerdon'd, 1 would give with joy 
The father's arms to fold his boy, 
And Mortham's lands and towers resign 
To the just heirs of Mortham's line.' — 
Thou know'st that scarcely e'en his fear 
Suppresses Denzil's cynic sneer ; — 
' Then happy is thy vassal's part,' 
He said, ' to ease his patron's heart ! 
In thine own jailer's watchful care 
Lies Mortham's just ind rightful heir ; 
Thy generous wish is fully won, — 
Redmond O'Nealeis Mortham's son.' 



XIII. 

" Up starting with a frenzied look, 

His clenched hand the Baron shook ; 

' Is Hell at work ? or dost thou rave. 

Or darest thou palter with me, slave .'' 

Perchance thou wot'stnot, Barnard's towers 

Have racks, of strange and ghastly powers.' 

Denzil, who well his safety knew, 

Fii'mly rejoin'd, ' I tell thee true. 

Thy racks could give thee but to know 

The proofs, which I, untortured, show. — 

It chanced upon a winter night. 

When early snow made Stanmore white, 

That very night, when first of all 

Redmond O'Neale saw Rokeby hall, 

It was my goodly lot to gain 

A reliquary and a chain. 

Twisted and chased of massive gold. 

— Demand not how the prize I hold ! 

It was not given, nor lent, nor sold. — ■ 

Gilt tablets to the chain were hung, 

With letters in the Irish tongue. 

I hid my spoil, for there was need 

That I should leave the land with speed ; 

Nor then 1 deem'd it safe to bear 

On mine own person gems so rare. 

Smal! heed I of the talDlets took. 

But since have spell'd them by the book. 

When some sojourn in Erin's land 

Of their wild speech had given command. 

But d^irkling was tiie sense ; the phrase 

And language those of other days, 



Involved of purpose, as to foil 

An interloper's prying toil. 

The words, but not the sense, T knew, 

Till fortune gave the guiding clue. 

XIV. 

" ' Three days since, was that clue reveal'd, 

In Thorsgill as I lay conceal'd, 

And heard at full when Rokeby's Maid 

Her uncle's history display'd ; 

And now I can interpret well 

Each syllable the tablets tell. 

Mark, then : Fair Edith was the joy 

Of old O'Neale of Clandeboy ; 

But from her sire and country fied. 

In secret Mortham's Lord to wed. 

O'Neale his first resentment o'er. 

Despatched his son to Greta's shore, 

Enjoining he should make him known 

(Until his farther will were shown) 

To Edidi, but to her alone. 

What of their ill-starr'd meeting fell, 

Lord Wycliffe knows, and none so well. 

XV. 

" O'Neale it was, who, in despair, 
Robb'd Mortham of his infant heir ; 
He bred him in their nurture wild. 
And call'd him murder'd Connel's child. 
Soon died the nurse ; the Clan believed 
What from their Chieftain they received. 
His purpose was, that ne'er again 
The boy should cross the Irish main ; 
But, like his mountain sires, enjoy 
The woods and wastes of Clandeboy. 
Then on the land wild troubles came, 
And stronger Chieftains urged a claim, 
And wrested from the old man's hands 
His native towers, his father's lands. 
Unable then, amid the strife. 
To guard youug Redmond's rights or life, 
Late and reluctant he restores 
The infant to his native shores, 
With goodly gifts and letters stored, 
With many a deep conjuring word, 
To Mortham and to Rokeby's Lord. 
Nought knew the clod of Irish earth. 
Who was the guide, of Redmond's birth ; 
But deem'd his Chief s commands were laid 
On both, by both to be obey'd. 
How he was wounded by the way. 
I need not, and I list not say.' — 

XVI. 

" ' A wondrous tale ! and, grant it true, 
What,' W;cliffe answer'd, ' might I do 'i 
Heaven knows, as willingly as now 
I raise the bonnet from my brow. 






^ 



ROKEBY. 



Would I my kinsman's manors fair 
Restore to Mortham, or his heir ; 
But Mortham is distraught — O'Neale 
Has drawn for tyranny his steel, 
Malignant to our rightful cause, 
And train'd in Rome's delusive laws. 
Hark thee apart ! ' — They whisper'd long, 
Till Dcnzirs voice grew bold and strong ;- 
' My proofs I I never will,' he said, 
• Show mortal man where they are laid. 
Nor hope discovery to foreclose. 
By giving me to feed the crows ; 
For I have mates at large, who know 
Where I am wont such toys to stow. 
Free me from peril and from band. 
These tablets are at thy command : 
Nor were it hard to form some train. 
To wile old Mortham o'er the main. 
Then, lunatic's nor papist's hand 
Should wrest from thine the goodly land.'- 
— ' I like thy wit,' said Wycliffe, ' well ; 
But here in hostage shalt thou dwell. 
Thy son, unless my purpose err. 
May prove the trustier messenger. 
A scroll to Mortham shall he bear 
From me, and fetch these tokens rare. 
Gold shalt thou have, and that good store, 
And freedom, his commission o'er ; 
But if his faith should chance to fail. 
The gibbet frees thee from the jail.' — 

XVII. 

" Mesh'd in the net himself had twined. 
What subterfuge could Denzil find? 
He told me, with reluctant sigh. 
That hidden here the tokens lie ; 
Conjured my swift return and aid, 
By all he scoff' d and disobey'd, 
And look'd as if the noose were tied. 
And I the priest who left his side. 
This scroll for Mortham Wycliffe gave, 
Whom I must seek by Greta's wave ; 
Or in the hut where chief he hides. 
Where Thorsgill's forester resides. 
(Then chanced it, wandering in the glade. 
That he descried our ambuscade.) 
I was dismiss'd as evening fell. 
And reach'd but now this rocky cell." — 
" Give Oswald's letter." — Bertram read. 
And tore it fiercely shred by shred : — 
" All lies and villany ! to blind 
His noble kinsman's generous mind. 
And train him on from day to day, 
Till he can take his life away. — 
And now, declare thy purpose, youth, 
Nor dare to answer, save the truth ; 




If aught I mark of Denzil's art, 

I'll tear the secret from thy heart 1 " — 

XVIII. 

" It needs not. I renounce," he said, 

" My tutor and his deadly trade. 

Fix'd was my purpose to declare 

To Mortham, Redmond is his heir ; 

To tell him in what risk he stands. 

And yield these tokens to his hands. 

Fix'd was my purpose to atone, 

Far as I may, the evil done ; 

And fi.K'd it rests — if I survive 

This night, and leave this cave alive." 

" And Denzil ? " — " Let them ply the rack 

Even till his joints and sinews crack ! 

If Oswald tear him limb from limb. 

What ruth can Denzil claim from him. 

Whose thoughtless youth he led astray, 

And damn'd to this unhallow'd way ? 

He school'd me faitli and vows were vain ; 

Now let my master reap his gain." — 

" True," answer'd Bertram, " 'tis his meed , 

There's retribution in the deed. 

But thou — thou art not for our course, 

Hast fear, hast pity, hast remorse : 

And he with us the gale who braves, 

Must heave such cargo to the waves, 

Or lag with overloaded prore. 

While barks unburden'd reach the shore." 

XIX. 

He paused, and, stretching him at length, 
Seem'd to repose his bulky strength. 
Communing with his secret mind. 
As half he sat, and half reclined. 
One ample hand his forehead press'd, 
And one was dropp'd across his breast. 
The shaggy eyebrows deeper came 
Above his eyes of swarthy flame ; 
His lip of pride a while forbore 
The haughty curve till then it wore; 
The unalter'd fierceness of his look 
A shade of darken'd sadness took, — 
For dark and sad a presage press'd, 
Resistlessly on Bertram's breast, — 
And when he spoke, his wonted tone, 
So fierce, abrupt, and brief was gone. 
His voice was steady, low, and deep, 
Like distant waves, when breezes sleep; 
And sorrow mix'd with Edmund's fear, 
Its low unbroken depth to hear. 

XX. 

" Edmund, in thy sad tale I find 
The woe that warp'd my patron's mind; 
'Twould wake the fountains of the eye 
In other men, but mine are dry. 





1^ 



226 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Mortham must never see the fool. 
That sold himself base Wycliffe's tool ; 
Yet less from thirst of sordid gain, 
Than to avenge supposed disdain. 
Say, Bertram rues his fault ; — a word. 
Till now, from Bertram never heard : 
Say, too, that Mortham's Lord he prays 
,To think but on their former days ; 
On Ouariana's beacii and rock. 
On Cayo's bursting battle-shock, 
On Darien's sands and deadly dew, 
And on the dart Tlatzeca threw ; — 
Perchance my patron yet may hear 
More that may grace his comrade's bier. 
My soul hath felt a secret weight, 
A warning of approaching fate ; 
As priest had said, ' Return, repent ! ' 
As well to bid that rock be rent. 
Firm as that flint I face mine end ; 
My heart may burst, but cannot bend. 

XXI. 

" The dawning of my youth, with awe 
And prophecy, the Dalesmen saw ; 
For over Redesdale it came, 
As bodeful as their beacon-flame. 
Edmund, thy years were scarcely mine. 
When, challenging the Clans of Tyne, 
To bring their best my brand to prove, 
O'er Hexham's altar hung my glove ; ^s 
But Tynedale, nor in tower nor town. 
Held champion meet to take it down. 
My noontide, India may declare ; 
Like her fierce sun, I fired the air ! 
Like him, to wood and cave bade fly 
Her natives, from mine angry eye. 
Panama's maids shall long look pale 
When Risingham inspires the tale ; 
Chili's dark matrons long shall tame 
The froward child witli Bertram's name. 
And now, my race of terror run, 
Mine be the eve of tropic sun ! 
No pale gradations quench his ray, 
No twilight clews his wrath allay ; 
With disk like battle-target red, 
He rushes to his burning bed, 
Dyes the wide wave with bloody light. 
Then sinks at once — and all is night. — 

XXII. 

" Now to thy mission, Edmund. Fly, 
Seek Mortham out, and bid him hie 
To Richmond, wli_re his troops are laid. 
And lead his force to Redmond's aid. 
Say, till he reaches Egliston, 
A friend will watch to guard his son. 
Now, fare-thee-well ; for night draws on 
And I would rest me here alone." 



Despite his ill-dissembled fear. 

There swam in Edmund's eye a tear; 

A tribute to the courage high. 

That stoop'd not in extremit}', 

But strove, irregularly great, 

To triumph o'er approaching fate ! 

Bertram beheld the dewdrop start, 

It almost touch'd his iron heart : — 

" I did not think there lived," he said, 

" One, who would tear for Bertram shed." 

He loosen'd then his baldric's hold, 

A buckle broad of massive gold ; — 

" Of all the spoil that paid his pains, 

But this with Risingham remains ; 

And this, clear Edmund, thou shalt take^ 

And wear it long for Bertram's sake. 

Once more — to Mortham speed amain ; 

Farewell ! and turn thee not again." 



The night has yielded to the morn, 
And far the hours of prime are worn. 
Oswald, who, since the dawn of day, 
Had cursed his messenger's delay. 
Impatient question'd now his train, 
" Was Denzil's son return'd again ? " 
It chanced there ansvver'd of the crew, 
A menial, whom young Edmund knew : 
'' No son of Denzil this," — he said ; 
'• A peasant boy from Winston glade. 
For song and minstrelsy renown'd, 
And knavish pranks, the hamlets round."— 
" Not Denzil's son ! — From Winston 

vale ! — 
Then it was false, that specious tale : 
Or, worse — he hath despatch'd the youth 
To show to Mortham's Lord its truth. 
Fool that I was ! — but 'tis too late ;— 
This is the very turn of fate ! — 
The tale, or true or false, relies 
On Denzil's ^evidence ! — He dies! 
Ho ! Provost Marshal ! instantly 
Lead Denzil to the gallows-tree! 
Allow him not a parting word ; 
Short be the shrift, and sure the cord! 
Then let his gory head appal 
Marauders from the Castle-wall. 
Lead forth thy guard, that duty done, 
With best despatch to Egliston. — 
— Basil, tell Wilfrid he must straight 
Attend me at the Castle-gate." 

XXIV. 

" Alas I " the old domestic said, 
And shook his venerable head, 
" Alas, my lord ! full ill to-day 







ROKEBY. 



227 



May my young master brook the way ! 
The leech has spoke with grave alarm, 
Of unseen hurt, of secret harm, 
Of sorrow lurking at the heart, 
That mars and lets his healing art.'" — 
" Tush, tell not me !— Romantic boys 
Pine themselves sick for airy toys, 
I will find cure for Wilfrid soon ; 
Bid Inm for Egliston be boune. 
And quick ! — I hear the dull death-drum 
Tell Denzil's hour of fate is come." 
He paused with scornful smile, and then 
Resumed his train of thought agen. 
" Now comes my fortune's crisis near ! 
Entreaty boots not — instant fear. 
Nought else, can bend Matilda's pride, 
Or win her to be Wilfrid's bride. 
But when she sees the scaffold placed, 
With axe and block and headsman graced, 
And when she deems, that to deny 
Dooms Redmond and her sire to die. 
She must give way. — Then, were the line 
Of Rokeby once combined with mine, 
I gain the weather-gage of fate ! 
If Mortham come, he comes too late. 
While I, allied thus and prepared. 
Bid him defiance to his beard. — 
— If she prove stubborn, shall I dare 
To drop the axe ! — Soft ! pause we there. 
Mortham still lives — yon youth may tell 
His tale — and Fairfax loves him well ; — 
Else, wherefore should I now delay 
To sweep this Redmond from my way ? 
But she to piety perforce 
Must yield. — Without there 1 Sound to 
horse. ' ' 

XXV. 

'Twas bustle in the court below, — 

" Mount, and march forward ! '' — Forth 

they go ; 
Steeds neigh and trample all around, 
Steel rings, spears glimmer, trumpets 

sound. — 
Just then was sung his parting hymn ; 
And Denzil turn'd his eyeballs dim. 
And, scarcely conscious what he sees, 
Follows the horsemen down the Tees ; 
And, scarcely conscious what he hears. 
The trumpets tingle in his ears. 
O'er the long bridge they're sweeping now. 
The van is hid by greenwood bough ; 
But ere the rearward liad passed o'er, 
Guy Denzil heard and saw no more 1 
One stroke, upon the Castle bell, 
To Oswald nmg his dying knell. 



O, for that pencil, erst profuse 
of chivalry's emblazon'd hues. 
That traced of old, in Woodstock bower, 
The pageant of the Leaf and Flower, 
And bodied forth the tourney high, 
Held for the hand of Emily 1 
Then might I paint the tumult loud, 
That to the crowded abbey flow'd. 
And pour'd, as with an ocean's sound, 
Into the church's ample bound ! 
Then might 1 show each varying mien. 
Exulting, woeful, or serene ; 
Indifference, with his idiot stare. 
And Sympathy, with anxious air ; 
Faint the dejected Cavalier, 
Doubtful, disarm'd, and sad of cheer; 
And his proud foe, whose formal eye 
Claim'd conquest now and mastery ; 
And the brute crowd, whose envious zeal 
Huzzas each turn of Fortune's wheel. 
And loudest shouts when lowest lie 
Exalted worth and station high. 
Yet what may such a wish avail ? 
'Tis mine to tell an onward tale, 
Hurrying, as best I can, along. 
The hearers and the hasty song ; — 
Like traveller when approaching home, 
Who sees the shades of evening come, 
And must not now his course delay, 
Or choose the fair, but winding way ; 
Nay, scarcely may his pace suspend, 
Where o'er his head the wildings bend, 
To bless the breeze that cools his brow, 
Or snatch a blossom from the bough. 

XXVII. 
The reverend pile lay wild and waste, 
Profaned, dishonor'd, and defaced. 
Through storied lattices no more 
In soften'd light the sunbeams pour. 
Gilding the Gothic sculpture rich 
Of shrine, and monument, and niche; 
The Civil fury of the time 
Made sport of sacrilegious crime ; 
For dark Fanaticism rent 
Altar, and screen, and ornament. 
And peasant hands the tombs o'erthrew 
Of Bowes, of Rokeby, and Fitz-Hugh, 
And now was seen, unwonted sight, 
In holy walls a scaffold dight ; 
Where once the priest, of grace divine. 
Dealt to his flock the mystic sign. 
There stood the block display'd, and there 
The headsman grim liis hatchet bare ; 
And for the word of Hope and Faith, 
Resounded loud a doom of death. 







228 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Thrice the fierce trumpet's breath was 

licard, 
And echo'a thrice the licrald's word, 
Dooming, for breach of martial laws, 
And treason to the Common's cause, 
The Knight of Rokeby and O'Neale 
To stoop their heads to block and steel. 
The trumpets flourisli'd high and shrill, 
Then was a silence dead and still ; 
And silent prayers to heaven were cast. 
And stifled sobs were bursting fast, 
Till from the crowd begun to rise 
Murmurs of sorrow or surprise, 
And from the distant aisles there came 
Deep-mutter' d threats, with Wycliffe's 

name. 



But Oswald, guarded by his band. 

Powerful in evil, waved his hand, 

And bade Sedition's voice be dead, 

On peril of the murmurer's head. 

Then^ first his glance sought Rokeby's 

Knight ; 
Who gazed on the tremendous sight, 
As calm as if he came a guest 
To kindred Baron's feudal feast, 
As calm as if that trumpet-call 
Were summons to the banner'd hall ; 
Firm in his loyalty he stood, 
And prompt to seal it with his blood. 
With downcast look drew Oswald nigh, — 
He durst not cope with Rokeljy's eye ! 
And said, with low and faltering breath. 
" Thou know'st t!ie terms of life and 

death." 
The Knight then turn'd, and sternly 

smiled ; 
'The maiden is mine only child, 
Yet shall my blessing leave her head, 
If with a traitor's son slie wed." 
Tlien Redmond spoke : " The life of one 
( l^tight thy malignity atone, 
On me be flung a double guilt ! 
Spare Rokeby's blood, let mine be spilt ! " 
Wychffe had listen'd to liis suit, 
But dread prevail'd, and he was mute. 

XXIX. 

And now he pours his choice of fear 

In secret on INIatilda's ear ; 

" An union form'd with me and mine, 

Ensures the faith of Rokeby's line. 

Consent, and all this dread array, 

Like morning dream shall pass away ; 

Refuse, and, by my duty press'd, 

I give the word — thou know'st the rest." 



Matilda, still and motionless, 

With terror heard the dread address, 

Pale as the sheeted maid who dies 

To hopeless love a sacrifice ; 

Then wrung her hands in agony, 

And round her cast bewilder'd eye. 

Now on the scaffold glanced, and now 

On Wycliffe's unrelenting brow. 

She veil'd her face, and, with a voice 

Scarce audible, — " I make my choice ! 

Spare but their lives ! — for, aught beside, 

Let Wilfrid's doom my fate decide. 

He once was generous ! " — As she spoke, 

Dark Wycliffe's joy in triumph broke : — 

" Wilfrid, where loiter'd ye so late ? 

Why upon Basil rest thy weight ? — 

Art spell-boimd by enchanter's wand? — 

Kneel, kneel, and take her yielded hand; 

Thank her with raptures, simple boy ! 

Should tears and trembling speak thy 

joy?"- 
" O hush, my sire ! To prayer and tear 
Of mine thou hast refused thine ear ; 
But now the awful hour draws on. 
When truth must speak in loftier tone." 



He took Matilda's hand : " Dear maid, 

Couldst thou so injure me," he said, 

" Of thy poor friend so basely deem, 

As blend with him this barbarous scheme ? 

Alas ! my efforts, made in vain. 

Might well Iiave saved this added pain. 

But now, bear witness earth and heaven, 

That ne"er was hope to mortal given, 

So twisted with the strings of life, 

As this — to call Matilda wife ! 

I bid it now for ever part. 

And with tlie effort bursts my heart ! " 

His feeble frame was worn so low, 

With wounds, with watching, and with woe 

That nature could no more sustain 

The agony of mental pain. 

He kneel'd — liis lip her hand had press'd, — 

Just then he felt tlie stern arrest. 

Lower and lower sunk his head. — 

They raised him, — but the life was fled ' 

Then, first alarm'd, his sire and train 

Tried every aid, but tried in vain. 

The soul, too soft its ills to bear. 

Had left our mortal hemisphere. 

And sought in better world the meed, 

To blameless life by Heaven decreed. 

XXXI. 

The wretched sire beheld, aghast. 
With Wilfrid all his projects past. 




— ^ <• 1 ■> 











" One instant's glance around he threw, 
From saddle bow his pistol drew." 

liokebij, canto vi. 32. 





ROKEB y. 



229 



All turn'd and centred on his son, 

On Wilfrid all — and he was gone. 

" And I am childless now," he said, 

" Chddless, through that relentless maid ! 

A lifetime's arts, in vaJh essay'd, 

Are bursting on their artist's head I 

Here lies my Wilfrid dead — and there 

Comes hated Mortham for his heir. 

Eager to knit in happy band 

With Kokeby's heiress Redmond's hand. 

And sliall their triumph soar o'er all 

The schemes deep-laid to work their fall ? 

No ! — deeds, which prudence might not 

dare, 
Appal not vengeance and despair. 
The murd'ress weeps upon his bier — 
I'll change to real that feigned tear ! 
They all shall share destruction's shock; — 
Ho 1 lead the captives to the block ! " 
But ill his Provost could divine 
His feelings, and forbore the sign. 
" Slave ! to the block ! — or I, or they, 
Shall face the judgment-seat this day 1 " 



The outmost crowd have heard a sound. 
Like horse's hoof on harden'd ground : 
Nearer it came, and yet more near, — 
The very death's-men paused to hear. 
'Tis in the church-yard now — the tread 
Hath waked the dwelling of the dead 1 
Fresh sod, and old sepulchral stone, 
Return the tramp in varied tone. 
All eyes upon the gateway hung. 
When through the Gothic arch there 

sprung 
A horseman arm'd, at headlong speed — ■ 
Sable his cloak, his plume, his steed. -^^ 
Fire from the flinty floor was spurn'd. 
The vaults unwonted clang return'd ! — 
One instant's glance around he threw, 
From fjddlebow his pistol drew. 
Grimly determined was his look ! 
His charger with the spurs he strook— 
All scatter'd backward as he came, 
For all knew Bertram Risingham ! 
Three bounds that noble courser gave ; 
The first has reach'd the central nave. 
The second clear'd the chancel wide. 
The third — he was at Wycliffe's side. 
Full levell'd at the Baron's head, 
Rung the report — the bullet sped— 
And to his iong account, and last, 
Without a groan dark Oswald past ! 
All was so quick that it might seem 
A flash of lightning or a dream.. 



XXXIIl. 

While yet the smoke the deed conceals, 
Bertram his ready charger wheels ; 
But flounder'd on the pavement floor 
The steed, and down the rider bore. 
And, bursting in the headlong sway, 
The faithless saddle-girths gave way. 
'Twas while he toil'd him to be freed, 
And with the rein to raise the steed, 
That from amazement's iron trance 
All Wycliffe's soldiers waked at once. 
Sword, halbert, musket-butt, their blows 
Hail'd upon Bertram as he rose ; 
A score of pikes, with each a wound, 
Bore down and pinn'd him to the ground ; 
But still his struggling force he rears, 
'Gainst hacking brands and stabbing 

spears ; 
Thrice from assailants shook him free, 
Once gain'd his feet, and twice his knee. 
By tenfold odds oppress'd at length. 
Despite his struggles and his strength, 
He took a hundred mortal wounds, 
As mute as fox 'mongst mangling hounds ; 
And when he died, his parting groan 
Had more of laughter than of moan ! 
— They gazed, as when a lion dies. 
And hunters scarcely trust their eyes. 
But bend their weapons on the slain, 
Lest the grim king should rouse again ! 
Then blow and insult some renew'd, 
And from the trunk, the head had hew'd. 
But Basil's voice the deed forbade ; 
A mantle o'er the corse he laid ; — 
" Fell as he was in act and mind, 
He left no bolder heart behind : 
Then give him, for a soldier meet, 
A soldier's cloak for winding-sheet." 



No more of deatti and dying pang, 
No more of trump and bugle clang, 
Though through the sounding woods there 

come 
Banner and bugle, trump and drum. 
Arm'd with such powers as well had freed 
Young Redmond at his utmost need, 
And back'd with such a band of horse, 
As might less ample powers enforce; 
Possess'd of every proof and sign 
That gave an heir to Morlham's line, 
And yielded to a father's arms 
An image of his Edith's charms, — 
Mortham is come, to hear and see 
Of this strange morn the history. 
What saw he .'' — not the church's floor, 
Cumber'd with dead and stain'd with gorej 



^' 






J30 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



What heard l;e ? — not . the clamorous 

crowd, 
That shout their gratulations loud : 
Redmond he saw and heard alone, 
Clasp'd him, and sobb'd, " My son ! my 

son ! " — ■ 



This chanced upon a summer morn, 
When yellow waved the heavy corn : 
But when brown August o'er the land 
Call'd forth the reaper's busy band, 
A gladsome sight the sylvan road 
From Egliston to Mortham show'd. 
A while the hardy rustic leaves 
The task to bind and pile the sheaves, 
And maids their sickles fling aside, 
To gaze on bridegroom and on bride, 



And childhood's wondering group draws 

near, 
And from the gleaner's hands the ear 
Drops, while she folds them for a prayer 
And blessing on the fcvely pair, 
'Twas then the I\7aid of Rokeby gave 
Her plighted troth to Redmond Isra/e ; 
And Teesdale cau remember yet 
How Fate to Virtue paid her debt. 
And, for their troubles, bade them prove 
A lengthen'd life of peace and love. 



Time and Tide had thus their sway, 
Yielding, like an April day, 
Smiling noon for sullen morrow, 
Years of joy for hours of sorrow ! 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN: 

OR, 

THE VALE OF ST. JOHN. 
A LOVER'S TALE. 



PREFACE TO FIRST EDITION. 

In the Edinburgh Annual Register for the year iSog, Three Fragments were inserted, 
written in imitation of Living Poets. It must have been apparent, that by these prolusions, 
nothing burlesque, or disrespectful to the authors, was intended, but that they were offered to 
the public as serious, though certainly very imperfect, imitations of that style of composition, by 
which each of the writers is supposed to be distinguished. As these exercises attracted a 
greater degree of attention than the author anticipated, he has been induced to complete one of 
them, and present it as a separate publication. 

It is not in this place that an examination of the works of the master whom he has here 
adopted as his model, can, with propriety, be introduced ; since his general acquiescence in the 
favorable suffrage of the public must necessarily be inferred from the attempt he has now made. 
He is induced, by the nature of his subject, to offer a few remarks tin what has been called 
ROMANTIC poetry; the popularity of vvliich has been revived in the present day, mider the 
auspices, and by the luiparalleled success, of one individual. 

The original purpose of poetry is either religious or historical, or, as must frequently happen, 
a mixture of both. To modern readers, the poems of Homer have many of the features of pure 
romance ; but in the estimation of his contemporaries, they probably derived their chief value 
from their supposed historical authenticity. The same may be generally said of the poetry of 
all early ages. The marvels and miracles which the poet blends with his song, do not exceed it 
number or extravagance the figments of the historians of the same period of society ; and, indeed, 
the difference betwixt poetry and prose, as the vehicles of historical truth, is always of late 
introduction. Poets, under various denominations of Bards, Scalds, Chroniclers, and so forth, 
are the first historians of all nations. Their intention is to relate the events they have witnessed, 
or the traditions that have reached them ; and they clothe the relation in rhyme, merely as the 
means of rendering it more solemn m the narrative or more easily committed to memory. But 
as the poetical historian improves in the art of conveying information, the authenticity of his 
narrative unavoidably declines. He is tempted to dilate and dwell upon the events that are 
interesting to his imagination, and, conscious how indifferent his audieuce is to the naked 
truth of his poem, his history gradually becomes a romance. 

It is in this situation that those epics are found, which have been generally regarded tlie 



^" 





THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 



531 



standards of poetry ; and it has happened somewhat strangely, that the moderns Iiave pomt&d 
out as the characteristics and peculiar excellencies of narrative poetry, the very cn-cumstances 
which the authors themselves adopted, only because their art involved the duties of the historian as 
well as the poet. It cannot be believed, for example, that Homer selected the siege of Troy as the 
most appropriate subject foi )ioetrv ; his purpose was to write the early history of his country ; the 
event he has chosen, though not very fruitful in varied incident, nor perfectly well adapted 
for poetrv, was nevertheless combined with traditionary and genealogical anecdotes extremely 
interesting to those who were to listen to him ; and this he has adorned by the exertions ot 
a genius, which, if it has been equalled, has certainly been never surpassed. It was not till com- 
paratively a late period that the general accuracy of his narrative, or his purpose in composing 
it, was brought into question. Aoxei Trpwro? [6' Ava^ayopas] (/caSa <^i\ai. 'PaPopivo^ ev TravToSaTrri 
'IcTTOpia) Tr)v 'O/aTJpov voi-qaii' a.iT0<l>rtva(j8ai nlvai Trept apeTv;? koX SLKai.oavi'-q'i. But whatever 
theories might be framed by speculative men, his workwas of an historical, not of an allegorical 
nature. EVauTiAAero ixsto. toi) Mei'Teiu ua: ottov cxacrTOTe a<j>iKOiTO, Trai'Ta to. eTrixcupia 
SiepuiTaTO Ka'i icrTOpeuiV eirvi'Ba.i'eTO- eiKOs Si p-Lvriv Ka\ fxyrtixoavyandi'TMi' ypa.<l>e(Tdai. Instead 
of recommending the choice of a subject similar to that of Homer, it was to be expected that 
critics should have exhorted the poets of these latter days to adopt or invent a narrative m itself 
more susceptible of poetical ornament, and to avail themselves of that advantage in order to 
compensate, in some degree, the inferiority of genius. The contrary course has Jjeen inculcated 
by almost all the writers upon the Epopoeia ; with what success, the fate of Homer's numerous 
Imitators may best show. The ?<///7K7«« J/i'//'''''*""' °^ criticism was inflicted on the author it 
he did not choose a subject which at once deprived him of all claim to originality, and placed 
h\m. if not in actual contest, at least in fatal comparison, with those giants in the land whom it 
was most his interest to avoid. The celebrated receipt for writing an epic poem, which appeared 
in The Guardian, was the first instance in which common sense was applied to this department 
of poetry; and, indeed, if the question be considered on its own merits, we must be satisfied 
that narrative poetry, if strictly confined to the great occurrences of history, would be deprived 
of the individual interest which it is so well calculated to excite. 

Modem poets may therefore be pardoned in seeking simpler subjects of verse, more interest- 
ing in proportion to their simplicity. Two or three figures, well grouped, suit the artist better 
than a crowd, for whatever purpose assembled. For the same reason, a scene immediately pre- 
sented to the imagination, and directly brought home to the feelings, though involving the fate 
of but one or two persons, is more favorable for poetry than the political struggles and convul- 
sions which influence the fate of kingdoms. The former are within the reach and comprehension 
of all, and, if depicted with vigor. sJldom fail to fix attention : The other, if more sublime, are 
more vague and distant, less c'apable of being distinctly understood, and infinitely less capable o£ 
exciting those sentiments which it is the very purpose of poetry to inspire. To generalize is 
always to destroy effect. We would, for example, be more interested in the fate of an individual 
soldier in combat, than in the grand event of a general action ; with the happiness of two lovers 
raised from misery and anxiety to peace and union, than with the successful exertions of a whole 
nation. From what causes this may originate, is a separate and obviously an immaterial con- 
sideration. Before ascribing this peculiarity to causes decidedly and odiously selfish, it is 
propei* to recollect, that while' men see only a limited space, and while their affections and conduct 
are regulated, not by aspiring to an universal good, but by exerting their power of rnaking them- 
selves and others happy within the limited scale allotted to each individual, so long will individual 
history and individual virtue be the readier and more accessible road to general interest and atten- 
tion ; and, perhaps, we may add, that it is the more useful, as well as the more accessible, inas- 
much as it affords an example capable of being easily imitated. _ 

According to the author's idea of Romantic Poetry, as distinguished from Epic, the forrner 
comprehends a fictitious narrative, framed and combined at tlie pleasure of the writer; begin- 
ning and ending as he may judge best: which neither exacts nor refuses the use of supernatural 
machinerv ; w^hich is free'from the technical rules of the Epee; and is subject only to those 
which good sense, good taste, and good morals, apply to every species of poetry without excep- 
tion. The date may be in a remote age, or in the present; the story may detail the adventures 
of a prince or of a peasant. In a word, the author is absolute master of his country and its inhab- 
itants, and everything is permitted to him, excepting to be heavy_ or prosaic, for which, free 
and unembarrassed as he is, he has no manner of apology. Those, it is probable, will be found 
the peculiarities of this species of composition ; and before joining the outcry against the vitiated 
taste that fosters and encourages it, the justice and grounds of it ought to be made perfectly 
apparent. If the want of sieges, and battles, and great military evolutions, in our poetry, is 
complained of, let us reflect, that the campaigns and neroes of our days are perpetuated in a 
record that neither requires nor admits of the aid of fiction ; and if_ the complaint refeis to the 
inferiority of our bards, let us pay a just tribute to their modesty, limiting them, as it does, to 
subjects which, however indifferently treated^ have still the interest and charm of novelty, and 
which thus prevents them from adding insipidity to their other more insui>erabie defects. 








THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 



INTRODUCTION. 



Come, Lucy ! while 'tis morning hour, 

The woodland brook we needs must pass 
So, ere the sun assume his power, 
We shelter in our poplar bower, 
Where the dew lies long upon the flower. 

Though vanish'd from the velvet grass. 
Curbing the stream, this stony ridge 
May serve us for a sylvan bridge ; 

For here compell'd to disunite, 

Round petty isles the runnels glide. 
And chafing off their puny spite, 
The shallow murmurs waste their might. 

Yielding to footstep free and light 
A dry-shod pass from side to side. 

II. 

Nay, why this hesitating pause ? 
And, Lucy, as thy step withdraws. 
Why sidelong eye the streamlet's brim ? 

Titania's foot without a slip, 
Like thine, though timid, light, and slim. 

From stone to stone might safely trip. 

Nor risk the glow-worm clasp to dip 
That binds her slipper's silken rim. 
Or trust thy lover's strength : nor fear 

That this same stalwart arm of mine. 
Which could yon oak's prone trunk uprear. 
Shall shrink beneath the burden dear 

Of form so slender, light, and fine — 
So, — now, the danger dared at last, 
Look back, and smile at perils past ! 

III. 

And now we reach the favorite glade. 

Paled in by copsewood, cliff, and stone. 
Where, never harsher sounds invade. 

To break affection's whispering tone, 
Than the deep breeze that waves the shade 

Than the small brooklet's feeble moan. 
Come! rest thee on thy wonted seat; 

Moss'd is the stone, the turf is green, 
A place where lovers best may meet, 

Who would that not their love be seen. 
The boughs, that dim the summer sky, 
Shall hide us from each lurking spy, 
232 



That fain would spread the invidious 
tale. 
How Lucy of the lofty eye. 
Noble in birth, in fortunes high. 
She for whom lords and barons sigh. 

Meets her poor Arthur in the dale. 



How deep that blush ! — how deep that 

sigh! 
And why does Lucy shun mine eye .'' 
Is it because that crimson draws 
Its color from some secret cause, 
Some hidden movement of the breast 
She would not that her Arthur guess'd! 
O ! quicker far is lover's ken 
Than the dull glance of common men. 
And, by strange sympathy, can spell 
The thoughts the loved one will not tell ? 
And mine, in Lucy's blush, saw met 
The hues of pleasure and regret; 
Pride mingled in the sigh her voice. 
And shared with Love the crimson 
glow ; 
Well pleased that thou art Arthur's 
choice. 
Yet shamed thine own is placed so 
low : 
Thou turn'st thy self-confessing cheek. 

As if to meet the breeze's cooling : 
Then, Lucy, hear thy tutor speak, 

For Love, too, has his hours of school- 



ing. 



V. 



Too oft my anxious eye has spied 
That secret grief thou fain wouldst hide, 
The passing pang of humbled pride ; 
Too oft, when through the splendid hall. 

The load-star of each heart and eye, 
My fair one leads the glittering ball, 
Will her stol'n glance on Arthur fall 

With such a blush and such a sigh ! 
Thou would'st not yield, for wealth or 
rank. 
The heart thy worth and beauty won. 
Nor leave me on this mossy bank. 
To meet a rival on a throne : 











y^ _ 


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THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 233 


-- 




Whv, then, should vain repinings rise, 


In notes of marvel and of fear, 




That to thy lover fate denies 


That best may charm romantic ear. 






A nobler name, a wide domain. 


For Lucy loves, — like Collins, ill-starr'd 




. 


J ^ A Baron's birth, a menial train, 


name ! •J ^ 






• Since Heaven assign'd him, for his part. 


Whose lay's requital was that tardy fame, 






A lyre, a falchion, and a hearth ? 


Who bound no laurel round his living head, 
Should hang it o'er his monument when 






VI. 


dead, — 






My sword — its master must be dumb ; 


For Lucy loves to tread enchanted strand, 






But, when a soldier names my name. 


And thread, like him, the maze of fairy land ; 






Approach, my Lucy ! fearless come. 


Of golden battlements, to view the gleam. 






Nor dread to hear of Arthur's shame. 


And slumber soft by some Elysian stream ; 






My heart — 'mid all yon courtly crew. 


Such lays she loves, — and, such my Lucy's 






Of lordly rank and lofty line. 


choice. 




; 


Is there to love and honor true. 


What other song can claim her Poet's voice ? 






That boasts a pulse so warm as mine ? 








They praised thy diamond's lustre rare — 
Match 'd with thine eyes, 1 thought it 












faded ; 








They praised the pearls that bound thy 


CANTO FIRST. 






hair — 








I only saw the locks they braided ; 


I. 






They talk of wealthy dower and land, 


Where is the Maiden of mortal strain. 






And titles of high birth the token — 


That may match with the Baron of Trier- 






I thought of Lucy's heart and hand, 


main 1 1 






Nor knew the sense of what was spoken. 


She must be lovely, and constant, and kind. 






And yet, if rank'd in Fortune's roll. 


Holy and pure, and humble of mind. 






I might have learn'd their choice unwise, 


Blithe of cheer, and gentle of mood, 


• 




Who rate the dower above the soul, 


Courteous, and generous, and noble of 






And Lucy's diamonds o'er her eyes. 


blood — 
Lovely as the sun's first ray. 






VII. 


When it breaks the clouds of an April day; 






My lyre ^ it is an idle toy, 


Constant and true as the widow'd dove. 






That borrows accents not its own, 


Kind as a minstrel that sings of love ; 






Like warbler of Columbian sky. 


Pure as the fountain in rocky cave. 






That sings but in a mimic tone.* 


Where never sunbeam kiss'd the wave ; 






Ne'er did it sound o'er sainted well, 


Humble as maiden that loves in vain. 






Nor boasts it aught of Border .'^pell ; 


Holy as hermit's vesper strain ; 






Its strings no feudal slogan pour, 


, Gentle as breeze that but whispers and dies. 






Its heroes draw no broad claymore ; 


Yet blithe as the light leaves that dance in 






No shouting clans applauses raise, 


its sighs ; 






Because it sung their father's praise ; 


Courteous as monarch the morn he is 






On Scottish moor, or English down, 


crown'd. 






It ne'er was graced by fair renown ; 


Generous as spring-dews that bless the glad 






Nor won, — best meed to minstrel true, — 


ground ; 






One favoring smile from fair Buc- 


Noble her blood as the currents that met 






cleuch! 


In the veins of the noblest Plantagenet — 






By one poor streamlet sounds its tone, 


Such must her form be, her mood, and her 






And heard by one dear maid alone. 


strain. 
That shall match with Sir Roland of 






VIII. 


Triermain. 






But, if thou bid'st, these tones shall tell 


II. 






t Of errant knight, and damozelle ; 




t 


P Of the dread knot a Wizard tied. 


Sir Roland de Vaux he hath laid him to «^ r 








In punishment of maiden's pride, 


sleep. 
His blood it was fever'd, his breathing was 
deep. 




* The Mocking Bird. 


I 

s 


U 






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J—J 5 


. C 1_5 


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234 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



He had been pricking against the Scot, 
The foray was long, and the skirmish hot ; 
His dinted helm and his buckler's plight 
Bore token of a stubborn fight. 

All in the castle must hold them still. 
Harpers must lull him to his rest. 
With the slow soft tunes he loves the best, 
Till sleep sink down upon his breast, 

Like the dew on a summer hill. 



It was the dawn of an autumn day ; 
The sun was struggling with frost-fog gr 
That like a silvery cape was spread 
Round Skiddaw's dim and distant head, 
And faintly gleam'd each painted pane 
Of the lordly halls of Triermain, 

When that Baron bold awoke. 
Starting he woke, and loudly did call, 
Rousing his menials in bower and hall, 

While hastily he spoke. 



" Hearken, my minstrels ! Which of ye all 
Touch'd his harp with that dying fall, 

So sweet, so soft, so faint. 
It seem'd an angel's wliisper'd call 

To an expiring saint ? 
. And hearken, my merry-men ! What time 
or where 
Did she pass, that maid with her heav- 
enly brow. 
With her look so sweet and her eyes so fair. 
And her graceful step and her angel air, 
And the eagle plume in her dark-brown hair, 
That pass'd from niy bower e'en now ? " 



Answer'd him Richard de Bretville ; he 
Was chief of the Baron's minstrelsy, — 
" Silent, noble chieftain, we 

Have sat since midnight close. 
When such lulhng sounds as the brooklet 

sings, 
Murmur'ci from our melting strings, 
And hush'd you to repose. 
Had a harp-note sounded here, 
It had caught my watchful ear. 
Although it fell as faint and shy 
As bashful maiden's half-form'd sigh. 
When she thinks her lover near." — 
Answer'd PhiJip of Fasthwaite tall, 
He kept guard in the outer-hall, — 
" Since at eve our watch took post, 
Not a foot has thy portal cross'd ; 



Else had I heard the steps, though low 
And light they fell, as when earth receives. 
In morn of frost, the wither'd leaves, 

That drop when no winds blow." — 



" Then come thou hither, Henry my page, 
Whom I saved from the sack of Hermitage, 
When that dark castle, tower, and spire. 
Rose to the skies a pile of fire, 

.^nd redden'd all the Nine-stane Hill, 
And the shrieks of deatli that wildly broke 
Through devouring flame and smothering 
smoke, 

IVIade the warrior's heart-blood chill. 
The trustiest thou of all my train, 
My fleetest courser thou must rein, 

And ride to Lyulph's tower. 
And from the Baron of Triermain 

Greet well that sage of power. 
He is sprung from Druid sires, 
And British bards that tuned their lyres 
To Arthur's and Pendragon's praise. 
And his who sleeps at Dunmailraise.* 
Gifted like his gifted race. 
He the characters can trace, 
Graven deep in elder time 
Upon Helvellyn's cliffs sublime; 
Sign and sigil well doth he know, 
And can Dode of weal and woe, 
Of kingdoms' fall and fate of wars. 
From mystic dreams and course of stars. 
He shall tell if middle earth 
To that enchanting shape gave birth. 
Or if 'twas but an airy thing, 
Sucli as fantastic slumbers bring, 
Framed from, the rainbow's varying dyes, 
Or fading tints of western skies. 
For, by the blessed Rood I swear. 
If that fair form breathes vital air. 
No other maiden by my side 
Shall ever rest De Vaux's bride I " 

VII. 

The faithful Page he mounts his steed. 

And soon he cross'd green Irthing's mead, 

Dash'd o'er Kirkoswald's verdant plain. 

And Eden barr'd his course in vain. 

He pass'd red Penrith's Table Round ^ 

For feats of chivalry renown'd, 

Left Mayburgh's mound ^ and stones of 

power. 
By Druids raised in magic hour, 

* Dunmaih-aise is one of the grand passes 
from Cumberland into Westmoreland. There 
is a cairn on it said to be the monument of 
Dunmail, the last King of Cumberland. 





<. I •> 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAJiV. 



235 



And traced the Eamont's winding way, 
Till Ulfo's*lake beneath him lay. 



Onward he rode, the pathway still 
Winding betwixt the lake and hill ; 
Till, on Hie fragment of a rock, 
Struck from its base by lightning shock, 

He saw the hoary Sage : 
The silver moss and lichen twined. 
With fern and deer-hair check'd and lined, 

A cushion fit for age ; 
And o'er him shook the aspen-tree, 
A restless rustling canopy. 
Then sprung young Henry from his selle, 

And greeted Lyulph grave, 
And then his master's tale did tell. 

And then for counsel crave. 
The Man of Years mused long and deep. 
Of time's lost treasures taking keep, 
And then, as rousing from a sleep, 

His solemn answer gave. 



•' That maid is born of middle earth. 

And may of man be won, 
Though there have glided since her birth 

Five hundred years and one. 
But where's the Knight in all the north, 
That dare the adventure follow forth, 
So perilous to knightly worth. 

In the valley of St. John ? 
Listen, youth, to what I tell. 
And bind it on thy memory well ; 
Nor muse tliat I commence the rhyme 
Far distant 'mid the wrecks of time. 
The mystic tale, by bard and sage, 
Is handed down from Merlin's age. 

X. 

lyulph's tale. 
'King Arthur has ridden from merry 
Carlisle 

When Pentecost was o'er. 
He journey'd like errant-knight the while. 
And sweetly the summer sun did smile 

On mountain, moss, and moor. 
Above his solitary track 
Rose Glaramara's ridgy back. 
Amid whose yawning gulfs the sun 
Cast umber'd radiance red and dun. 
Though never sunbeam could discern 
The surface of that sable tarn,'' 
In whose black mirror you may spy 
The stars, while noontide lights the sky. 



* Ulswater. 



The gallant King he skirted still 
The margin of that mighty hill ; 
Rock upon rocks incumbent hung, 
And torrents, down the gullies flung, 
Join'd the rude river that brawl'd on. 
Recoiling now from crag and stone, 
Now diving deep from human ken, 
And raving down its darksome glen. 
The Monarch judged this desert wild, 
With such romantic ruin piled. 
Was theatre by Nature's hand 
For feat of high achievement plann'd. 

XI. 

" O rather he chose, that Monarch bold, 

On vent'rous quest to ride, 
In plate and mail, by wood and wold, 
Than, with ermine trapp'd and cloth of gold, 

In princely bower to bide ; 
The bursting crash of a foeman's spear 

As it shiver'd against his .Tiail, 
Was merrier music to his ear 

Than courtier's whisper'd tale ; 
And the clash of Caliburn f more dear. 

When on the hostile casque it rung 
Then all the lays 
To their monarch's praise 

That the harpers of Reged sung. 
He loved better to rest by wood or river. 
Than in the bower of his bride. Dame 

Guenever, 
For he left that lady, so lovely of cheer. 
To follow adventures of danger and fear ; 
And the frank-hearted Monarch full little 

did wot, 
That she smiled, in his absence, on brave 
Lancelot. 

XII. 
" He rode, till over down and dell 
The shade more broad and deeper fell ; 
And though around the mountain's head 
Flow'd streams of purple, and gold, and 

red. 
Dark at the base, unblest by beam, 
Frown'd the black rocks, and roar'd the 

stream. 
W"ith toil the King his way pursued 
By lonely Threlkeld's waste and wood, 
Till on his course obliquely shone 
The narrow valley of Saint John, 
Down sloping to the western sky, 
Where lingering sunbeams love to lie. 
Right glad to feel those beams again, 
The King drew up his charger's rein ; 



t King Arthur's sword, called by Tennyson 
Excalibur. 







236 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



With gauntlet raised he screen'd his sight, 
As dazzled with the level light, 
And, from beneath his glove of mail, 
Scann'd at his ease the lovely vale. 
While 'gainst the sun his armor bright 
Gleam'd ruddy like the beacon's light. 



" Paled in by many a lofty hill, 
The narrow dale lay smooth and still. 
And, down its verdant bosom led, 
A winding brooklet found its bed. 
But, midmost of the vale, a mound 
Arose with airy turrets crown'd. 
Buttress, and rampire's circling bound. 

And mighty keep and tower ; 
Seem'd some prmieval giant's hand 
The castle's massive walls had plann'd, 
A ponderous bulwark to withstand 

Ambitious Nimrod's power. 
Above the moated entrance slung. 
The balanced drawbridge trembling hun" 

As jealous of a foe ; 
Wicket of oak, as iron hard. 
With iron studded, clench'd and barr'd, 
And prong'd portcullis, join'd to guard 

The gloomy pass below. 
But the gray walls no banners crown'd. 
Upon the watch-tower's airy round 
No warder stood his horn to sound. 
No guard beside the bridge was found. 
And where the Gothic gateway frown'd. 

Glanced neither bill nor bow. 



" Beneath the castle's gloomy pride 

In ample round did Arthur ride 

Three times ; nor living thing he spied, 

Nor heard a living sound, 
Save that, awakening from her dream, 
The owlet now began to scream, 
In concert with the rushing stream. 

That wash'd the battle mound. 
He lighted from his goodly steed, 
And he left him to graze on bank and mead 
And slowly he ciimlo'd the narrow way, 
That reach'd th§ entrance grim and gray. 
And he stood the outward arch below, 
And his bugle-horn prepared to blow, 

In summons blithe and bold. 
Deeming to rouse from iron sleep 
The guardian of this dismal Keep, 

Wliich well he guess'd the hold 
Of wizard stern, or goblin grim, 
Or pagan of gigantic limb. 

The tyrant of the wold. 



" The ivory bugle's golden tip 

Twice touch'd the monarch's manly lip. 

And twice his hand withdrew. 
— Think not but Arthur's heart was good ! 
His shield was cross'd by the blessed rood, 
Had a pagan host before him stood. 

He had charged them through and 
through ; 
Vet the silence of that ancient place 
Sunk on his heart, and he paused a space 

Ere yet his horn he blew. 
But, instant as its 'larum rung. 
The castle gate was open flung. 
Portcullis rose with crashing groan 
Full harshly up its groove of stone ; 
The balance-beams obey'd the blast, 
And down the trembling drawbridge cast ; 
The vaidted arch before him lay, 
With nought to bar the gloomy way, 
And onward Arthur paced, with hand 
On Caliburn's resistless brand. 



" A hundred torches, flashmg bright, 
Dispell'd at once the gloomy night 

That lour'd along the walls. 
And show'd the King's astonish'd sight 

The inmates of the halls. 
Nor wizard stern, nor goblin grim, 
Nor giant huge of form and limb. 

Nor heathen knight, was there; 
But the cressets, which odors flung aloft, 
Show'd by their yellow light and soft, 

A band of damsels fair. 
Onward they came, like summer wave 

That dances to the shore ; 
An hundred voices welcome gave. 

And welcome o'er and o'er ! 
An hundred lovely hands assail 
The bucklers of the monarch's mail. 
And busy labor'd to unhasp 
Rivet of steel and iron clasp. 
One wrapp'd him in a mantle fair. 
And one flung odors on his hair ; 
His short curl'd ringlets one smooth'd down, 
One wreathed them with a myrtle crown. 
A bride upon her wedding-day. 
Was tended ne'er by troop so gay. 

XVII. 

" Loud laugh'd they all, — the King, in vain, 
With questions task'd the giddy train ; 
Let him entreat, or crave, or call, 
Twas one reply ^loud laugh'd they all. 
Then o'er him mimic chains they fling, 
Framed of the fairest flowers of spring. 







THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 



237 



While some their gentle force unite, 
Onward to drag the wondering knight, 
Some, bolder, urge his pace with blows, 
Dealt with the lily or tiie rose. 
Behind him were in triumph borne 
The warlike arms he late had worn. 
Four of the train combined to rear 
The terrors of Tintadgel's Fjaear ; ^ 
Two, laughing at their lack of strength 
Dragg'd Caliburn in cumbrous length ; 
One, while she aped a maitial stride, 
Placed on her brows the helmet's pride ; 
Then scream'd, 'twixt laughter and surprise. 
To feel its depth o'ervvhelm her eyes. 
With revel-shout, and triumph-song. 
Thus gayly march'd the giddy throng. 



" Through many a gallery and hall 
They led, I weea their royal thrall ; 
At length, beneath a fair arcade 
Their march and song at once they st^d. 
The eldest maiden of the band, 

(The lovely maid was scarce eighteen,) 
Raised, with imposing air her hand. 
And reverent silence did command. 

On entrance of their Queen, 
And they were mute. — But as a glance 
They steal on Arthur's countenance, 

Bewilder'd with surprise, 
Their smother'd mirth again 'gan speak, 
In archly dimpled chin and cheek. 

Ana laughter-lighted eyes. 

XIX. 

" The attributes of those high days 
Now only live in minstrels-lays ; 
For Nature, now exliausted, still 
Was then profuse of good and ill. 
Strength was gigantic, valor high, 
And wisdom soar'd beyond the sky. 
And beauty had such matchless beam 
As lights not now a lover's dream. 
Yet e'en in that romantic age. 

Ne'er were such charms by mortal seen, 
As Arthur's dazzled eyes engage, 
When forth on that enchanted stage, 
With glittering train of maid and page, 

Advanced the castle's Queen ! 
While up the hall she slowly pass'd, 
Her dark eye on the King she cast. 

That flash 'd expression strong; 
The longer dwelt that lingering look, 
Her cheek the livelier color took. 
And scarce the shame-faced King could 
brook 

The gaze that lasted long. 



A sage, who had that look espied. 
Where kindling passion strove with pride. 

Had whispered, ' Prince, beware 1 
From the chafed tiger rend the prey. 
Rush on the lion when t.t bay. 
Bar the fell dragon's blighted way. 

But shun that lovely snare ! ' — 



" At once that inward strife suppress'd, 
The dame approach'd her warlike guest, 
With greeting in that fair degree, 
Where female pride and courtesV 
Are blended with such passing art 
As awes at once and cliarms the heart. 
A courtly welcome first she gave. 
Then of his goodness 'gan to crave 

Construction fair and true 
Of her light maidens' idle mirth, 
Who drew from lonely glens their birth, 
Nor knew to pay to stranger worth 

And dignity their due ; 
And then she pray'd that he would rest 
That night her castle's honor'd guest. 
The Monarch meetly thanks express'd ; 
The banquet rose at her behest, 
With lay and tali:, and laugh and jest, 

Apace the evening flew. 

XXI. 

" The Lady sate the Monarch by. 
Now in her turn abash'd and sh)', 
And with indifference seem'd to hear 
The toys he whisper'd in her ear. 
Her bearing modest was and fair, 
Yet shadows of constraint were there, 
That show'd an over-cautious care 

Some inward tliought to hide ; 
Oft did she pause in full reply, 
And oft cast down her large dark eye, 
Oft check'd the soft voluptuous sigh, 

That heaved her bosom's pride. 
Slight symptoms these, but shepherds know 
How hot the mid-day sun shall glow, 

From the mist of morning sky ; 
And so the wily Monarch guess'd. 
That this assumed restraint express'd 
More ardent passions in the breast, 

Than ventured to the eye. 
Closer he press'd, while beakers rang, 
While maidens laugh'd and minstrels sang. 

Still closer to her ear — 
But why pursue the common tale ? 
Or wherefore show how knights prevail 

When ladies dare to hear ? 
Or wherefore trace from wliat slight cause 
Its source one tyrant passion draws, 







SCOTT'S POETICAL IVOA'JirS. 



Till, mastering all within, 
Where lives tlie man that has not tried, 
How mirth can into folly glide, 

And folly into sin ? " 



CANTO SECOND. 



lyulph's tale, continued. 
" Another clay, another day, 
And yet another glides away ! 
The Saxon stem, the pagan Dane, 
Maraud on Britain's sliores again. 
Artliur, of Christendom the flower, 
Lies loitering in a lady's bower ; 
The horn, that foemen wont to fear, 
Sounds but to wake the Cumbrian deer, 
And Caliburn, the British pride. 
Hangs useless by a lover's side. 



" Another day, another day, 

And yet another, glides away ! 

Heroic plans in jileasure drown'd, 

He thinks not of the Table Round ; 

In lawless love dissolved his life. 

He thinks not of his beauteous wife : 

Better he loves to snatch a flower 

From bosom of his paramour, 

Than from a Saxon knight to wrest 

Tlie honors of his heathen crest ! 

Better to wreathe, 'mid tresses brown, 

The heron's plume her hawk struck down, 

Than o'er the altar give to flow 

The banners of a Paynim foe. 

Thus, week by week, and day by day, 

His life inglorious glides away: 

But she, that soothes his dream, with fear 

Beholds his hour of waking near 1 



" Much force have mortal charms to stay 
' Our peace in Virtue's toilsome way; 
But Guendolen's might far outshine 
Each maid of merely mortal line. 
Her mother was of human birth, 
Her sire a Genie of the earth. 
In days of old deem'd to preside 
O'er lovers' wiles and beauty's pride, 
By youths and virgins worsliipp'd long. 
With festive dance and choral song, 
Till, when the cross to Britain came, 
On heathen altars died the flame. 
Now, deep in Wastdale solitude. 
The downfall of his rights he rued. 



And, born of his resentmert heir. 
He train'd to guile that lady fair. 
To sink in slothful sin and shame 
The champions of the Christian name. 
Well skill'd to keep vain thoughts alive, 
And all to promise, nought to give, — 
The timid youth had hope in ttore. 
The bold and pressing gain'd no more. 
As wilder'd children leave their home. 
After the rainbow's arch to roam, 
Her lovers barter'd fair esteem. 
Faith, fame, and honor, for a drearn. 

IV. 

" Her sire's soft arts the soul to tame 

She practised thus — till Arthur came ; 

Then, frail humanity had part. 

And all the mother claim'd her heart. 

Forgot each rule her father gave, 

Sunk from a princess to a slave. 

Too late must Guendolen deplore. 

He, that has all, can hope no more ! 

Now must she see her lover strain 

At every turn her feeble chain ; 

Watch, to ncw-bind eacli knot, nr i shrink 

To view each fast-decaying link. 

Art she invokes to Nature's aid, 

Her vest to zone, her locks to braid; 

Each varied pleasure heard her call, 

The feast, the tourney, and the ball : 

Her storied lore she next applies. 

Taxing her mind to aid her eyes ; 

Now more tlian moxlal wise, and thMi 

In female softness sunk again : 

Now, raptured, with each wish complying, 

With feign'd reluctance now denying ; 

Each charm she varied, to retain 

A varying heart — and all in vain I 

V. 

" Thus in the garden's narrow bound, 
Flank'd by some castle's Gothic I'ound, 
Fain would the artist's skill provide, 
The limits of liis realms to hide. 
The walks in labyrinths he twines, 
Shade after shade with skill combines, 
With many a varied flowery knot. 
And copse, and arbor, decks the spot, 
Tempting the hasty foot to stay. 

And linger on the lovely way 

Vain art 1 vain hope I 'tis fruitless all 1 
At length we reach the bounding wall. 
And, sick of flower and trim-dress'd tree, 
Long for rough glades and forest free. 

VI. 

" Three summer months had scantly flown, 
When Arthur, in embarrass'd tone. 
Spoke of his liegemen and his throne ; 






Pledge we, at parting, in the dianght 
Which Geuii love ! " 

The Bridal of Triermain, canto ii. 9. 




THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN 



239 



Said, all too long had been his stay, 
And duties, which a Monarch sway, 
Duties, unknown to humbler men, 
Must tear her knight from Guendolen. — 
She listen'd silently the while, 
Her mood express'd in bitter smile ; 
Beneath her eye must Arthur quail, 
And oft resume the unfinish'd tale, 
Confessing, by his downcast eye. 
The wrong he sought to justify. 
He ceased. A moment mute she gazed. 
And then her looks to heaven she raised ; 
One palm her temples veil'd, to hide 
The tear that sprung in spite of pride ! 
The other for an instant press'd 
The foldings of her silken vest ! 

VII. 

" At her reproachful sign and look. 

The hint the Monarch's conscience took. 

Eager he spoke — ' No, lady, no ! 

Deem not of British Arthur so. 

Nor think he can deserter prove 

To the dear pledge of mutual love. 

I swear by sceptre and by sword. 

As belted knight and Britian's lord, 

That if a boy shall claim my care, 

That boy is born a kingdom's heir ; 

But, if a maiden Fate allows. 

To choose that maid a fitting spouse, 

A summer-day in lists shall strive 

My knights, — the bravest knights alive, — 

And he, the best and bravest tried. 

Shall Arthur's daughter claim for bride.'— 

He spoke, with voice resolved and high— 

The lady deign'd him not reply. 

VIII. 

" At dawn of morn, ere on the brake 
His matins did a warbler make, 
Or stirr'd his wing to brush away 
A single dew-drop from the spray, 
Ere yet a sunbeam through the mist 
The castle-battlements had kiss'd, 
The gates revolve, the drawbridge falls. 
And Arthur sallies from the walls. 
Doff d his soft garb of Persia's loom, 
And steel from spur to helmet-plume, 
His Libyan steed full proudly trode, 
And joyful neigh'd beneath his load. 
The Monarch gave a passing sigh 
To penitence and pleasures by, 
When, ]o ! to his astonish'd ken 
Appear'd the form of Guendolen. 

IX. 

" Beyond the outmost wall she stood, 
Attired like huntress of the wood; 



Sandall'd her feet, her ankles bare. 

And eagle-plumage deck'd her hair ; 

Firm was her look, her bearing bold, 

And in her hand a cup of gold. 

' Thou goest,' she said, ' and ne'er again 

Must we two meet, in joy or pain. 

Full fain would I this hour delay, 

Though weak the wish — yet, wilt thou stay i 

— No ! thou look'st forward. Still attend,— 

Fart we like lover and like friend.' 

She raised the cup—' Not this the juice 

The sluggish vines of earth produce ; 

Pledge we, at parting, in the draught 

Which Genii love ! ' — she said, and quaff'd 

And strange unwonted lustres fly 

From her flush'd cheek and sparkling eye. 



" The courteous Monarch bent him low, 
And, stooping down from saddlebow, 
Lifted the cup, in act to drink. 
A drop escaped the goblet's brink- 
Intense as liquid fire from hell, 
Upon the charger's neck it feil. 
Screaming with agony and fright. 
He bolted twenty feet upright — 
— The peasant still can show the dint. 
Where his hoofs lighted on the flint. — 
From Arthur's hand the goblet flew. 
Scattering a shower of fiery dew,^ 
That burn'd and blighted where it fell ! 
The frantic steed rush'd up tlie dell, 
As whistles from the bow the reed ; 
Nor bit nor rein could check his speed, 

Until he gain'd the hill ; 
Then breat'n and sinew fail'd apace, 
And, reeling from the desperate race. 

He stood, exhausted, still. 
The Monarch, breathless and amazed, 

Back on the fatal castle gazed 

NoY tower nor donjon could he spy, 
Darkening against the morning sky ; ' 
But, on the spot where once they frown'd, 
The lonely streamlet brawl' d around 
A tufte4 knoll, where dimly shone 
Fragments of rocks and rifted stone. 
Musing on this strange hap the while. 
The king wends back to fair Carlisle ; 
And cares, that cumber royal sway. 
Wore memory of the past away. 



" Full fifteen years, and more, were sped. 
Each brought new wreaths to Arthur's head 







240 



SCOTT'S POE'TICAL WORKS. 



Twelve bloody fields, with glory fought.^ 

The Saxons to subjection brought : 

Rython, the mighty giant, slain 

By his good brand, relieved Bretagne : 

The Pictish Gillamore in fight. 

And Roman Lucius own'd his might ; 

And wide were through the world renown'd 

The glories of his Table Round. 

Each knight who sought adventurous fame. 

To the bold court of 13ritain came. 

And all who suffer'd causeless wrong, 

Frojn tyrant proud, or faitour strong, 

Souglit Arthur's presence to complain. 

Nor there for aid implored in vain. 



" For this the King, with pomp and pride. 
Held solemn court at Whitsuntide, 

And summon'd Prince and Peer, 
All who owed homage for their land, 
Or who craved knighthood from his hand. 
Or who had succor to demand, 

To come from far and near. 
At such high tide were glee and game 
Mingled with feats of martial fame. 
For many a stranger champion came, 

In lists to break a spear ; 
And not a knight of Arthur's host. 
Save that he trode some foreign coast, 
But at this feast of Pentecost 

Before him must appear. 
Ah, Minstrels ! when the Table Round 
Arose, with all its warriors crown'd, 
There was a theme for bards to sound 

In triumph to their string ! 
five hundred years are past and gone, 
But time shall draw his dving groan. 
Ere he behold the British throne 

Begirt with such a ring ; 



" The heralds named the appointed spot, 
As Caerleon or Camelot, 

Or Carlisle fair and free. 
At Penrith, now, t!ie feast was set, 
And in fair Eamont's vale were met 

The flower of Chivalry. 
There Galaad sate with manly grace, 
Yet maiden meekness in his face ; 
There Morolt of the iron mace, 

And love-lorn Tristrem there ; 9 
And Dinadam with lively glance, 
And Lanval with the fairy lance. 
And Mordred with his look askance, 

Brunor and Bevidere. 
Why should I tell of members more ? 
Sir Cay, Sir Bannier, and Sir Bore, 



Sir Carodac the keen, 
The Gentle Gawain's courteous lore, 
Hector de Mares and Pellinore, 
And Lancelot, that evermore 

Look'd stol'n-wise on the Queen.'" 



" When wine and mirth did most abound. 
And harpers play'd their blithest round, 
A shrilly trumpet shook the ground, 

And marshals clear'd the ring ; 
A maiden, on a palfrey white. 
Heading a band of damsels bright. 
Paced through the circle, to alight 

And kneel before the King. 
Arthur, with strong emotion, saw 
Her graceful boldness check'd by awe, 
Her dress, like huntress of the wold, 
Her bow and baldric trapp'd witli gold, 
Her sandall'd feet, her ankles bare. 
And tlie eagle-plume that deck'd her hair. 

Graceful her veil she backward flung 

The King, as from his seat he sprung, 

Almost cried, ' Guendolen ! ' 
But 'twas a face more frank and wild, 
Betwixt the woman and the child. 
Where less of magic beauty smiled 

Than of the race of men ; 
And in the forehead's haughty grace, 
The lines of Britain's royal race, 

Pendragon's you might ken. 



" Faltering, yet gracefully, she said — 
' Great Prince ! ' behold an orphan maid, 
In her departed mother's name, 
A father's vow'd protection claim ! 
The vow was sworn in desert lone. 
In the deep valley of St. John.' 
At once the King the suppliant raised. 
And kiss'd her brow, her beauty praised ; 
His vow, he said, should well be kept, 
Ere in the sea the sun was dipp'd, — 
Then, conscious, glanced uponhis queen; 
But she, unruffled at the scene 
Of human frailty, construed mild, 
Look'd upon Lancelot and smiled. 

XVI. 

" ' Up ! up ! each knight of gallant crest 

Take buckler, spear, and brand ! 
He that to-day shall bear him best, 

Shall win my Gyneth's hand. 
And Arthur's daughter, when a bride, 

Shall bring a noble dower ; 
Both fair Strath-Clyde and Reged wide, 

And Carlisle town and tower.' 







THE BRIDAL OF rRIERMAIJV. 



341 



Then might you hear each valiant knight, 

To page and squire that cried, 
< Bring my armor bright, and my courser 

wight ! 
'Tis not each day that a warrior's might 

IVIay win a royal bride.' 
Then cloaks and caps of maintenance 

In haste aside tliey fling ; 
The helmets glance, and gleams the lance. 

And the steel-weaved hauberks ring. 
Small care had they of their peaceful array, 

They might gather it that wolde ; 
For brake and bramble glitter'd gay, 

With pearls and cloth of gold. 



*' Within trumpet sound of the Table 
Round 

Were fifty champions free. 
And they all arise to fight that prize, — 

They all arise but three. 
Nor love's fond troth, nor wedlock's oath. 

One gallant could withhold. 
For priests will allow of a broken vow, 

For penance or for gold. 
But sigh and glance from ladies bright 

Among the troop were thrown, 
To plead their right, and true-love plight. 

And 'plain of honor flown. 
The knights they busied them so fast, 

With buckling spur and belt, 
That sigh and look, by ladies cast. 

Were neither seen nor felt. 
From pleading or upbraiding glance. 

Each gallant turns aside. 
And only thought, ' If speeds my lance, 

A queen becomes my bride ! 
She has fair Strath-Clyde, and Reged 
wide, 

And Carlisle tower and town ; 
She is the lovliest maid, beside, 

That ever heir'd a crown.' 
So in haste their coursers they bestride. 

And strike their visors down. 



" The champions, arm'd in martial sort, 

Have throng'd into the list, 
And but three knights of Arthur's cou7t 

Are from the tourney miss'd. 
And still these lovers' fame survives 

For faith so constant shown — 
There were two who loved their neighbor's 
wives, 

And one who loved his own." 
The first was Lancelot de Lac, 

The second Tristrem bold, 



i«r-4- 



The third was valiant Carodac, 

Who won the cup of gold,'^ 
What time, of all King Arthur's crew, 

(Thereof came jeer and laugh,) 
He, as the mate of lady true. 

Alone the cup could quaff. 
Though envy's tongue would fain surmise, 

That but for very shame. 
Sir Carodac, to fight that prize, 

Had given both cup and dame , 
Yet, since but one of that fair court 

Was true to wedlock's shrine, 
Brand him who will with base report,— 

He shall be free from mine. 
xi.x. 
" Now caracoled the steeds in air. 
Now plumes and pennons wanton'd fair, 
As all around the lists so wide 
In panoply the champions ride. 
King Arthur saw with startled eye, 
The flower of chivalry march by. 
The bulwark of the Christian creed. 
The kingdom's shield in hour of need. 
Too late he thought him of the woe 
Might from their civil conflict flow ; 
For well he knew he would not part 
Till cold was many a gallant heart. 
His hasty vow lie 'gan to rue. 
And Gyneth then apart he drew ; 
To her his leading-staff resign'd. 
But added caution grave and kind. 

XX. 

" ' Thou seest, my child, as promise-bound 

I bid the trump for tourney sound. 

Take thou my warder as the queen 

And umpire of the martial scene ; 

But mark thou this : — as Beauty iDright 

Is polar star to valiant knight. 

As at her word his sword he draws. 

His fairest guerdon her applause, 

So gentle maid should never ask 

Of knighthood vain and dangerous task ; 

And Beauty's eyes should ever be 

Like the twin stars that soothe the sea. 

And Beauty's breath shall whisper peace, 

.And bid the storm of battle cease, 

I tell thee this, lest all too far, 

These knights urge tourney into war. 

Blithe at the trumpet let them go. 

And fairly counter blow for blow ; — 

No striplings these, who succor need 

For a razed helm or falling steed. 

But, Gyneth, when the strife grows warm, 

And threatens death or deadly harm. 

Thy sire entreats, thy king commands. 

Thou drop the warder from thy hands. 





24^ 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Trust thou thy father with thy fate, 
Doubt not he choose thee fitting mate ; 
Nor be it said, through Gyneth's pride 
A. rose of Arthur's chaplet died.' 



' A proud and discontented glow 
O'ershadow'd Gyneth's brow of snow ; 

She put the warder by : — 
'Reserve thy boon, my liege,' she said, 
'Thus chaffer'd down and Hmited, 
Debased and narrow'd for a maid 

Of less degree than I. 
No petty chief but holds his heir 
At a more honor'd price and rare 

Than Britain's King holds me ! 
Although the sun-burn'd maid, for dower, 
Has but her father's rugged tower, 

His barren hill and lee. — 
King Arthur swore, " By crown and sword. 
As belted knight and Britain's lord. 
That a whole summer's day should strive 
His knights, the bravest knights alive ! " 
Recall thine oath ! and to her glen 
Poor Gyneth can return agen ! 
Not on thy daughter will the stain, 
That soils thy sword and crown remain. 
But think not she will e'er be bride 
Save to the bravest, proved and tried ; 
Pendragon's daughter will not fear 
For clashing sword or splinter'd spear, 

Nor shrink though blood should flow ; 
And all too well sad Guendolen 
Hath taught the faithlessness of men, 
That child of hers should pity, when 

Their meed they undergo.' — 

XXII. 

" He frown'd and sigh'd, the Monarch 

bold:— 
' I give — what I may not withhold ; 
For, not for danger, dread, or death. 
Must British Arthur break his faith. 
Too late I mark, thy mother's art 
Hath taught thee this relentless part. 
I blame hei- not, for she had wrong, 
But not ;to these my faults belong. 
Use, then, tlie warder as thou wilt ; 
But trust me, if life be spilt. 
In Arthur's love, in Arthur's grace, 
Gyneth shall lose a daughter's place.' 
With that he turn'd his head aside, 
Norbrook'd to gaze upon her pride. 
As, with the truncheon raised, she sate 
Tlie arbitress of mortal fate : 
Nor brook'd to mark, in ranks disposed, 
How the bold champions stood opposed. 



For shrill the trumpet-flourish fell 
Upon his ear like passing bell ! 
Then first from sight of martial fray 
Did Britain's hero turn away. 

XXIII. 
" But Gyneth heard the clangor high. 
As hears the hawk the partridge cry. 
Oh, blame her not ! the blood was hers. 
That at the trumpet's summons stirs! — 
And e'en the gentlest female eye 
Might brave the strife of chivalry 

A while untroubled view ; 
So well accomplish'd was each knight, 
To strike and to defend in fight, 
Their meeting was a goodly sight. 

While plate and mail held true. 
The lists with painted plumes were strewn^ 
Upon the wind at random thrown. 
But helm and breastplate bloodless shone. 
It seem'd their feather'd crests alone 

Should this encounter rue. 
And ever, as the combat grows 
The trumpet's cheery voice arose, 
Like lark's shrill song the flourish flows. 
Heard while the gale of April blows 

The merry greenwood through. 

XXIV. 

" But soon to earnest grew their gaine. 
The spears drew blood, the swords struck 

flame, »i 

And, horse and man, to ground there came 

Knights, who shall rise no more ! 
Gone was the pride the war that graced, 
Gay shields were cleft, and crests defaced. 
And steel coats riven, and helms unbraced, 

And pennons stream'd with gore. 
Gone, too, were fence and fair array. 
And desperate strength made deadly way 
At random through the bloody fray. 
And blows were dealt with headlong sway. 

Unheeding where they fell ; 
And now the trumpet's clamors seem 
Like, the shrill sea-bu'd's wailing scream. 
Heard o'er the whirlpool's gulfing stream, 

The sinking seaman's knell ! 

XXV. 

" Seem'd in this dismal hour, that Fate 
Would Camlan's ruin antedate, 

And spare dark Mordred's crime ; 
Already gasping on the ground 
Lie twenty of the Table Round, 

Of chivalry the prime. 
Arthur, in anguish, tore away 
From head and beard his tresses gray, 
And she, proud Gyneth, felt dismay. 













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TJ//: BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN-. 243 






And quaked with ruth and fear ; 


Twice, with effort and with pause, 






But still she deem'd her mother's shade 


O'er her brow her hand she draws ; 








Hung o'er the tumult, and forbade 


Twice her strength in vain she tries, 






<J 


^ The sign that had the slaughter staid, 


From the fatal chair to rise, 
Merlin's magic doom is spoken. 






And chid the risinc; tear. 






Then Rrunor, Taulas, Mador, fell, 


Vanoc's death must now be wroken. 






Helias the XA'hite, and Lionel, 


Slow the dark-fringed eyelids fall, 






And many a champion more ; 


Curtaining each azure ball. 






Rochemont and Dinadam are down. 


Slowly as on summer eves 






And Ferrand of the Forest Brown 


Violets fold their dusky leaves. 






Lies gasping in his gore, 


The weighty baton of command 






Vanoc, by mighty Morolt press'd 


Now bears down her sinking handj 






Even to the confines of the list, 


On her shoulder droops her head ; 






Young Vanoc of the beardless face, 


Net of pearl and golden thread, 






(Fame spoke the youth of IMerlin's race,) 


Bursting, gave her locks to flow 






O'erpower'd at Gyneth's footstool bled, 


O'er her arm and breast of snow. 






His heart's-blood dyed her sandals red. 


And so lovely seem'd she there. 






But then the sky was overcast, 


Spell-bound in her ivory chair. 






Then howl'd at once a whirlwind's blast, 


That her angry sire, repenting, 






And, rent by sudden throes. 


Craved stern Merlin for relenting, 






Vawn'd in mid lists the quaking earth, 


And the champions, for her sake, 






And from the gulf, — tremendous birth ! — 


Would again the contest wake ; 






The form of Merlin rose. 


Till, in necromantic night, 
Gyneth vanish' d from their sight. 






XXVI. 








" Sternly the Wizard Prophet eyed 


XXVIII. 






The dreary lists with slaughter dyed, 


" Still she bears her weird alone 






And sternly raised his hand : — 


Tn the Valley of .Saint John ; 






' IVladmen,' he said, ' your strife forbear ; 


And her semblance oft will seem, 






And thou, fair cause of miscliief, hear 


Mingling in a champion's dream. 






The doom thy fates demand ! 


Of her weary lot to 'plain. 






Long shall close in stony sleep 


.^nd crave his aid to burst her chain. 






Eyes for ruth that woidd not weep ; 


While her wondrous tale was new, 






Iron lethargy shall seal 


Warriors to her rescue drew, 






Heart that pity scorn'd to feel. 


East and west, and south and north, 






Yet, because thy mother's art 


From the Liffy, Thames, and Forth. 






Warp'd thine unsuspicious heart, 


Most have sought in ^'ain the glen. 






And for love of Arthur's race, 


Tower nor castle could they ken ; 






Punishment is blent with grace, 


Not at every time or tide, 






Thou shalt bear thy penance lone 


Nor by every eye, descried. 






In the Valley of Saint John, 


Fast and vigil must be borne. 






And this weird * shall overtake thee ; 


Many a night in watching worn, 






Sleep, until a knight shall wake thee. 


Ere an eye of mortal powers 






For feats or arms as far renown'd 


Can discern those magic towers. 






As warrior of the Table Round. 


Of the persevering few, 






Long endurance of thy slumber 


Some from hopeless task withdrew, 






Well may teach the world to number 


When they read the dismal threat 






All their woes from Gj'neth's pride. 


Graved upon the gloomy gate. 






When the Red Cross champions died.' 


Few have braved the yawning door, 
.\nd those few return'd no more. 






XXVII. 


In the lapse of time forgot, 






" As Merlin speaks, on Gyneth's eye 


Wellnigh lost is Gyneth's lot : 






^ 


Sliunber's load begins to lie ; 
Fear and anger vainly strive 
Still to keep its lidit alive. 


Sound her sleep as in the tomb, _ 
Till waken'd by the trump of doom." 


-> 










END OF LYULPH's TALE. 










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2 44 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Here pause my tale ; for all too soon, 
My Lucy, comes the hour of noon. 
Already from thy lofty dome 
Its courtly inmates 'gin to roam, 
And each, to kill the goodly day 
That God has granted them, his way 
Of lazy sauntering has sought ; 

Lordlings and witlings not a few, 
Incapable of doing aught, 

Yet ill at ease with nought to do. 
Here is no longer place for me ; 
For, Lucy, thou wouldst blush to see 
Some phantom fashionably thin. 
With limb of lath and kerchief'd chin, 
And lounging gape, or sneering grin, 
Steal sudden on our privacy. 
And how should I, so humbly born, 
Endure the graceful spectre's scorn ? 
Faith ! ill, I fear, whil'i conjuring wand 
Of English oak is hard at hand. 

II. 
Or grant the hour be all too soon 
For Hessian boot and pantaloon. 
And grant the lounger seldom strays 
Beyond the smooth and gravell'd maze. 
Laud we the gods, that Fashion's train 
Folds hearts of more adventurous strain. 
Artists are hers, who scorn to trace 
Their rules from Nature's boundless grace, 
But their right paramount assert 
To limit her by pedant art, 
Damning whate'er of vast and fair 
Exceeds a canvas three feet square. 
This thicket, for Xheir gmnftion fit. 
May furnish such a happy Int. 
Bards, too, are hers, wont to recite 
Their own sweet lays by waxen light, 
Half in the salver's tingle drown'd, 
While the cJiassc-cafe glides around ; 
And such may hither secret stray. 
To labor an extempore : 
Or sportsman, with his boisterous hollo 
May here his wiser spaniel follow. 
Or stage-struck Juliet may presume 
To choose this bower for tiring-room ; 
And we alike must shun regard, 
From painter, player, sportsman, bard. 
Insects that skim in Fashion's sky, 
Wasp, blue-bottle, or butterfly, 
Lucy, have all alarms for us. 
For all can hum and all can buzz. 



But oh, my Lucy, say hnw long 
We still must dread this trifling throng, 
And stoop to hide, with coward art, 
The genuine feelings of the heart 1 



No parents thine whose just command 
Should rule their child's obedient hand : 
Thy guardians, with contending voice, 
Press each his individual choice. 
And which is Lucy's ? — Can it be 
That puny fop, trimm'd cap-a-pee, 
Who loves in the saloon to show 
The arms that never knew a foe ; 
Whose sabre trails along the ground. 
Whose legs in shapeless boots are drown'd 
A new Achilles, sure, — the steel 
Fled from his breast to fence his heel ; 
One, for the simple manly grace 
That wont to deck our martial race, 

Who comes in foreign trashery 
Of tinkling chain and spur, 

A walking haberdashery. 
Of feathers, lace, and fur : 
In Rowley's antiquated phrase, 
Horse-milliner of modern days ? 



Or is it he, the wordy youth, 

So early train'd for statesman's part, 

Who talks of honor, faith, and trutii. 
As themes that he has got by heart ; 
Whose ethics Chesterfield can teach, 
Whose logic is from Single-speech ; '^ 
Who scorns the meanest thought to vent, 
Save in the phrase of Parliament ; 
Who, in a tale of cat and mouse. 
Calls " order," and '' divides the house," 
Who "' craves permission to reply," 
Whose " noble friend is in his eye ; " 
Whose loving tender some have reckon'd 
A motion, you should gladly second •* 



What, neither ? Can there be a third, 
To such resistless swains preferr'd .'' — 
O why, my Lucy, turn aside. 
With that quick glance of injured pride? 
Forgive me, love, I cannot bear 
That alter'd and resentful air. 
Were all the wealth of Russel mine. 
And all the rank of Howard's line, 
All would I give for leave to dry 
That dewdrop trembling in thine eye. 
Think not I fear such fops can wile 
Fr^/m Lucy more than careless smile ; 
But yet if wealth and high degree 
Give gilded counters currency. 
Must I not fear, when rank and birth 
Stamp the pure ore of genuine worth? 
Nobles there are, whose martial fires 
Rival the fame that raised their sires, 






THE BRIDAL OF TRIER MA IJV. 



245 



And patriots' skill'd through storms of 

fate 
To guide and guard the reeling state. 
Such, such there are — if such should come, 
Arthur must tremble and be dumb, 
Self-exiled seek some distant shore, 
And mourn till life and prief are o'er. 



What sight, what signal of alarm, 
That Lucy clings to Arthur's arm ? 
Or is it, that the rugged way 
Malves Beauty lean on lover's stay ? 
Oh, no ! for on the vale and brake. 
Nor sight nor sounds of danger wake, 
And this trim sward of velvet green, 
Were carpet f{jr the Fairy Queen. 
That pressure slight was but to tell, 
That Lucy loves her Arthur well, 
And fain would banish from his mind 
Suspicious fear and doubt unkind. 

VII. 

But would'st thou bid the demons fly 

Like mist before the dawning sky. 

There is but one resistless spell — 

Say, wilt thou guess, or must I tell ? 

'Twere hard to name, in minstrel phrase, 

A landaulet and four blood-bays. 

But bards agree this wizard band 

Can but be bound in Northern land. 

'Tis there — nay, draw not back thy 

hand ! — 
'Tis there this slender figure round 
Must golden amulet be bound, 
Which, bless'd with many a holy prayer, 
Can change to rapture lover's care. 
And doubt and jealousy shall die, 
And fears give place to ecstasy. 

VIII. 

Now, trust me, Lucy, all too long 
Has been thy lover's tale and song. 
O, why so silent, love, I pray ? 
Have I not spoke the livelong day ? 
And will not Lucy deign to say 

One word her friend to bless? 
I ask but one — a simple sound, 
Witliin three little letters bound, 

O, let the word be YES 1 



CANTO THIRD. 

INTRODUCTION. 
I. 

Long loved, long woo'd, and lately won. 
My life's best hope, and now mine own 1 



Doth not this rude and Alpine glen 
Recall our favorite haunts agen ? 
A wild resemblance we can trace. 
Though reft of every softer grace. 
As the rough warrior's brow may bear 
A likeness to a sister fair. 
Full well advised our Highland host, 
Thai; this wild pass on foot be cross'd. 
While round Ben-Cruach's mighty base 
Wheel the slow steeds and lingering chais 
The keen old carle, with Scottish pride, 
He praised his glen and mountains wide; 
An eye he bears for nature's face, 
Ay, and for woman's lovely grace. 
Even in such mean degree we find 
The subtle Scot's observing mind ; 
For, nor the chariot nor the train 
Could gape of vulgar wonder gain, 
But when old Allan would expound 
Of Beal-na-paish * the Celtic sound, 
His bonnet doff'd, and bow, applied 
His legend to my bonny bride : 
While Lucy blush'd beneath his eye, 
Courteous and cautious, shrewd and sly 



Enough of him. — Now, e'er we lose. 
Plunged in the vale, the distant views, 
Turn thee, my love ! look back once more 
To the blue lake's retiring shore. 
On its smooth breast the shadows seem 
Like objects in a morning dream. 
What time the slumberer is aware 
He sleeps, and all the vision's air : 
Even so, on yonder liquid lawn, 
In hues of bright reflection drawn, 
Distinct the shaggy mountains lie. 
Distinct the rocks, distinct the sky ; 
The summer-clouds so plain we note. 
That we might count each dappled spot: 
We gaze and we admire, yet know 
The scene is all delusive show. 
Such dreams of bliss would Arthur draw, 
When first his Lucy's form he saw ; 
Yet sigh'd and sicken'd as he drew, 
Despairing they could e'er prove true ! 

III. 
But, Lucy, turn thee now, to viev^ 

Up the fair glen, our destined way: 
The fairy path that we pursue, 
Distinguish'd but by greener hue. 

Winds round the purple brae. 
While Alpine flowers of varied dye 
For carpet serve, or tapestry. 



* Beal-na-J>aisk, in English the Vale of tbe 
Bridal. 







246 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



See how the livtle ninnels kap, 

In threads of silver, down tlie steep, 

To swell the brooklet's moan ! 
Seems that the Highland Naiad grieves. 
Fantastic while her crown she weaves, 
Of rowan, birch, and alder-leaves. 

So lovely, and so lone. 
There's no illusion there ; these flowers, 
That wailing brook, these lovely bowers, 

Are, Lucy, all our own ; 
And, since thine Arthur call'd thee wife 
Such seems the prospect of his life, 
A lovely path, on-winding still, 
By gurgling brook and sloping hilL 
'Tis true, that mortals cannot tell 
What waits them in the distant dell ; 
But be it hap, or be it harm, 
We tread the pathway arm in arm. 



And now, my Lucy, wot'st thou why 
I could thy bidding twice deny. 
When twice you pray'd I would again 
Resume the legendary strain 
Of the bold knight of Triermain ? 
At length yon peevish vow you swore, 
That you would sue to me no more, 
Until the minstrel fit drew near, 
And made me prize a listening ear. 
But, loveliest, when thou first didst pray 
Continuance of the knightly lay. 
Was it not on the happy day 

That made thy hand mine own .'' 
When, dizzied with mine ecstasy. 
Nought past, or present, or to be. 
Could I or think on, hear, or see, 

Save, Lucy, thee alone ! 
A giddy draught my rapture was, 
As ever chemist's magic gas. 



Again the summons I denied 
In yon fair capital of Clyde : 
My Harp — or let me rather choose 
The good old classic form — my Muse, 
{For Harp's an over-scutched phrase. 
Worn out by bards of modern days). 
My Muse, then — seldom will she wake. 
Save by dim wood and silent lake ; 
She is the wild and rustic Maid, 
Whose foot unsandall'd loves to tread 
Where the soft greensward is inlaid 

With varied moss and thyme ; 
And, lest the simple lily-braid. 
That coronets her temples, fade, 
She hides her still in greenwood shade, 

To meditate hei rhyme. 



And now she comes ! The murmur dear 
Of the wild brook hath caught her ear, 

The glades hath won her eye. 
She longs to join with each blithe rill 
That dances down the Highland hill, 

Her blither melody. 
And now, my Lucy's way to cheer. 
She bids Ben-Cruach's echoes liear 
How closed the tale, my love whilere 

Loved for its chivalry. 
List how she tells, in notes of flame, 
" Child Roland to the dark tower came." 



CANTO THIRD, 



Bewcastle now must keep the Hold, 

Speir-vVdam's steeds must bide in stall, 
Of Hartley-burn the bowmen bold 

Must only shoot from battled wall ; 
And Liddesdale may buckle spur, 

And Teviot now may belt the brand, 
Tarras and Ewes keep nightly stir, 

And Eskdale foray Cumberland. 
Of wasted fields and plunder'd flocks 

The Borderers bootless may complain ; 
They lack the sword of brave de Vaux, 

There comes no aid from Triermain. 
Tliat lord, on high adventure bound. 

Hath wander'd forth alone, 
And day and night keeps watchful round 

In the valley of Saint John. 



When first began his vigil bold. 

The moon twelve summer nights was old, 

And shone both fair and full ; 
High in the vault of cloudless blue, 
O'er streamlet, dale, and rock she threw 

Her light composed and cool. 
Stretch'd on the brown hill's heathy breast, 

Sir Roland eyed the vale ; 
Chief where, distinguish'd from the rest, 
Those clustering rocks uprear'd their crest, 
The dwelling of the fair distress'd, 

As told gray Lyulph's tale. 
Thus as he lay the lamp of night 
Was quivering on his armor bright, 

In beams that rose and fell. 
And danced upon his buckler's boss, 
That lay beside him on the moss, 

As on a crystal well. 







THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 



247 



Ever he watcli'd, and oft he deem'd, 
While on the mound the moonnght 
stream'd, 

It alter'd to his eyes ; 
Fain would he hope the rocks 'gan 

change 
To buttress'd walls their shapeless range, 
Fain think, by transmutation strange, 

He saw gray turrets rise. 
But scarce his heart with hope throbb'd 

high. 
Before the wild illusions fly, 

Which fancy had conceived, 
Abetted by an anxious eye 

That long'd to be deceived. 
It was a fond deception all, 
Such as, in solitary hall, 

Beguiles the musing eye, 
When, gazing on the sinking fire, 
Bulwarks, and battlement, and spire. 

In tlie red gulf we spy. 
For, seen by moon of middle night, 
Or by the blaze of noontide bright, 
Or by the dawn of morning light, 

Or evening's western flame, 
In every tide, at every hour, 
In mist, in sunshine, and in shower, 

The rocks remain'd the same. 

IV. 

Oft has he traced the charmed mound, 
Oft climb'd its crest, or paced it round, 

Yet nothing might explore, 
Save that the crags so rudely piled. 
At distance seen, resemblance wild 

To a rougli fortress bore. 
Vet still his watch the Warrior keeps. 
Feeds hard and spare, and seldom sleeps, 

And drinks but of the well : 
Ever by day he walks the hill. 
And when the evening gale is chill, 

He seeks a rocky cell, 
Like hermit poor to bid his bead. 
And tell his Ave and his Creed, 
Invoking every saint at need. 

For aid to burst his spell. 



And now the moon her orb has hid, 
And dwindled to a silver thread, 

Dim seen in middle heaven. 
While o'er its curve careering fast, 
Before the fury of the blast 

The midnight clouds are driven. 
The brooklet raved, for on the hills. 
The upland showers had swoln the rills, 



And down the torrents came ; 
Mutter'd the distant thunder dread. 
And frequent o'er the vale was spread 

A sheet of lightning flame. 
De Vaux, within his mountain cave, 
(No human step the storm durst brave,) 
To moody meditation gave 

Each faculty of soul. 
Till, luU'd by distant torrent sound, 
And the sad winds that whistled round, 
Upon his thoughts, in musing drown'd, 

A broken slumber stole. 



'Twas then was heard a heavy sound, 

(Sound, strange and fearful there to hear, 
'Mongst desert hills, where, leagues around, 

Dwelt but the gorcock and the deer :) 
As, starting from his couch of fern. 
Again he heard in clangor stern. 

That deep and solemn swell,^ 
Twelve times, in measured tone, it spoke. 
Like some proud minster's pealing clock. 

Or city's 'larum-bell. 
What thought was Roland's first when fell, 
In that deep wilderness, the knell 

Upon his startled ear ? 
To slander warrior were I loth. 
Yet must I hold my minstrel troth, — 

It was a thought of fear. 

VII. 

But lively was the mingled thrill 
That chased that momentary chill, 

For Love's keen wish was there, 
And eager Hope, and Valor high, 
And the proud glow of Chivalry, 

That burn'd to do and dare. 
Forth from the cave the Warrior rush'd, 
Long ere the mountain-voice v/as hiish'd, 

That answer'd to the knell ; 
For long and far the unwonted sound, 
Eddying in echoes round and round, 

W^as toss'd from fell to fell ; 
And Glaramara answer flung, 
And Grisdale-pike responsive rung, 
.\nd Legbert heights their echoes swung, 

As far as Derwent's dell. 

VIII. 

Forth upon trackless darkness gazed 
The Knight, bedeafen'd and amazed, 

Till all was hush'd and still, 
Save the swoln torrent's sullen roar. 
And the night-blast that wildly bore 

Its course along the hill. 
Then on the nortliern sky there came 
A light, as of reflected flame. 



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SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And over Legbert-head, 
As if by magic art controll'd, 
A mighty meteor slowly roli'd 

Its orb of fiery red ; 
Thou wouldst have thought some demon 

dire 
Came mounted on that car of fire, 

To do his errand dread. 
Far on tlie sloping valley's course, 
On thicket, rock, and torrent hoarse, 
Shingle and Scrae, * and Fell and Fdrcs,-| 

A dusky light arose : 
Display'd, yet alter'd was the scene ; 
Dark rock, and brook of silver sheen, 
Even the gay thicket's fummer green, 

In bloody tincture glows. 



De Vaux had mark'd the sunbeams set, 
At eve, upon the coronet 

Of that enchanted mound, 
And seen but crags at random flung, 
That, o'er the brawling toiTent hung. 

In desolation frown'd. 
What sees he by that meteor's lour ? — 
A banner'd Castle, keep, and tower, 

Return the lurid gleam. 
With battled walls and buttress fast. 
And barbican | and ballium § vast 

Their shadows on the stream. 
'Tis no deceit! — distinctly clear 
Crenel! || and parapet appear. 
While o'er the pile that meteor drear 

IVIakes momentary pause ; 
Then forth its solemn path it drew, 
And fainter yet and fainter grew 
Those gloomy towers upon the view, 

As its wild light withdraws. 



Fort'n from the cave did Roland rush. 
O'er crag and stream, through brier and 
bush. 

Yet far he had not sped, 
Ere sank was that portentous light 
Behind the !ii!ls, and utter night 

Was on the valley spread. 
He paused perforce, and blew his horn, 
And, on the mountain-echoes borne, 

Was heard an answering sound, 
A wild and lonely trumpet-note, — 

* Bank of loose stones. 
t Waterfall. 
X The outer defence of a castle gate. 
§ A fortified court. 
''\ Apeiturea for shooting arrows. 



In middle air it seem'd to float 

High o'er the battled mound ; 
And sounds were heard, as when a guard. 
Of some proud castle, holding ward, 
Pace forth their nightly round. 
The valiant Knight of Triermain 
Rung forth his challenge-blast again, 

But answer came there none ; 
And 'mid the mingled wmd and rain, 
Darkling he sought the vale in vain, 

Until the dawning shone; 
And when it dawn'd, that wondrous sight, 
Distinctly seen by meteor light- 
It all had pass'd away ! 
And that enchanted mount once move 
A pile of granite fragments bore, 
As at the close of day. 



Steel'd for the deed, De Vaux's heart, 
Scorn'd from his vent'rous quest to part, 

He walks the vale once more ; 
But only sees, by night or day, 
That shatter'd pile of rocks so gray. 

Hears but the torrent's roar, 
T'.ll wlien, tlirough hills of azure borne. 
The nidon renew'd her silver horn. 
Just at the time her waning ray 
Had faded in the dawning day, 

A summer mist arose ; 
Adown the vale the vapors float. 
And cloudy undulations moat 
That tufted mound of mystic note, 

As round its base they close. 
And higher now the fleecy tide 
Ascends its stern and shaggy side. 
Until the airy billows hide 

The rock's majestic isle ; 
It seem'd a veil of filmy lawn, 
By some fantastic fairy drawn 

Around enchanted pile. 



The breeze came softly down the brook, 

And, sighing as it blew. 
The veil of silver mist it shook. 
And to De Vaux's eager look 

Renew'd that wondrous view. 
For, though the loitering vapor braved 
The gentle breeze, yet oft it waved 

Its mantle's dewy fold ; 
And still, when shook that filmy screen, 
Were towers and bastions dimly seen, 
And Gothic battlements between 

Their gloomy length unroll'd. 
Speed, speed, De Vaux, ere on thine eye 
Once more the fleeting vision die! 






FHE BRIDAL OP TRIERMAIN. 



249 



— The gallant knight 'gan speed 
As prompt and light as, when the hound 
Is opening, and tlie horn is wound, 

Careers the hunter's steed. 
Dawn the steep dell his course amain 

Hath rivall'd archer's shaft; 
But ere the mound he could attain, 
The rocks their shapeless form regain, 
And, mocking loud liis labor vain. 

The mountain spirits laugh'd. 
Far up the echoing dell was borne 
'J'heir wild unearthly shout of scorn. 



Wrotli wax'd the Warrior. — " Am I then 

Fool'd by the enemies of men. 

Like a poor hind, whose homeward way 

Is haunted by malicious fay I 

Is Tnermain become your taunt, 

De Vaux your scorn ? False fiends, 

avaunt ! " 
A weighty curtal-axe he bare ; 
The baleful blade so bright and square. 
And the tough shaft of heben wood. 
Were oft in Scottish gore imbrued. 
Backward his stately form he drew, 
And at the rocks the weapon threw, 
Just where one crag's projected crest 
Hung proudly balanced o'er the rest. 
Hurl'd with main force, the weapon's shock 
Rent a huge fragment of the rock. 
If by mere strength, 't were hard to tell. 
Or if the blow dissolved some spell. 
But down the headlong ruin came. 
With cloud of dust and flash of flame. 
Down bank, o'er bush, its course was 

borne, 
Crush'd l;-,y the copse, the earth was toni, 
Till stairl ai length, the ruin dread 
Cumber'd the torrent's rocky bed. 
And bade the water's high-swoln tide 
Seek other passage for its pride. 

XIV. 

Wlien ceased that thunder, Triermain 
Survey'd the mound's rude front again ; 
And lo ! the ruin had laid bare. 
Hewn in the stone, a winding stair. 
Whose moss'd and fractured steps might 

lend 
The means the summit to ascend ; 
And by whose aid the brave De Vaux 
Began to scale these magic rocks, 

And soon a platform won, 
Where, the wild witchery to close, 
Within three lances' length arose 

The Castle of Saint John. 



No misty phantom of the air, 
No meteor-blazon'd show was there 
In morning splendor, full and fair, 
The massive fortress shone. 



Embattled high and proudly tower'd 
Shaded by pond'rous flankers, lower'd 

The portal's gloomy way 
Though for six hundred years and more, 
Its strength had bfook'd the tempest's roar 
The scutcheon'd emblems which it bore 

Had suffer'd no decay : 
But from the eastern battlement 
A turret had made sheer descent, 
And, down in recent ruin rent, 

In the mid torrent lay. 
Else, o'er the Castle's brow sublime. 
Insults of violence or of time 

Unfelt had pass'd away. 
In shapeless characters of yore. 
The gate this stern inscription tore: 



INSCRIPTION. 

" Patience vifaits the destined day, 
Strength can clear the cumber'd way. 
Warrior, who hast waited long, 
Firm of soul, of sinew strong. 
It is given thee to gaze 
On the pile of ancient days. 
Never mortal builder's hand 
This enduring fabric plann'd ; 
Sigh and sigil, word of power, 
From the earth raised keep and tower, 
'View it o'er, and pace it round, 
Rampart, turret, battled mound. 
Dare no more ! To cross the gate 
Were to tamper with thy fate : 
Strength and fortitude were vain. 
'View it o'er — and turn again." 



" That would I," said the Warrior bold, 
" If that my frame were bent and old. 
And my thin blood dropp'd slow and cold 

As icicle in thaw ; 
But while my heart can feel it dance, 
Blithe as the sparklmg wine of France, 
And this good arm wields sword or lance, 

I mock these words of awe ! '' 
He said ! the wicket felt the sway 
Of his strong hand, and straight gave way, 
And, with rude crash and jarring bray, 

The rusty bolts withdraw ; 
But o'er the threshold as he strode, 
And forward took the vaulted road. 







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^S^ SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 






An unseen arm, with force amain, 


Braved the fierce griffon in his ire, 




The ponderous gate flung close again. 


Or laced the dragon's breath of fire. 






J (, And rusted bolt and bar 


Strange in their arms, and strange in J I 






Spontaneous took their place once more, 


face. 






While the deep arch with sullen roar 


Heroes they seem'd of ancient race, 






Return'd their surly jar. 


Whose deeds of arms, and race, and name. 






" Now closed is the gin and the prey within 


Forgotten long by latei fame. 






By the rood of Lanercost ! 


Were here depicted, to appal 






But he that would win the war-wolf's skin, 


Those of an age degenerate, 






May rue him of his boast." 


Whose bold intrusion braved their fate, 






Thus muttering, on the Warrior went, 


In this enchanted hall. 






By dubious light down deep descent. 


For some short space the venturous king 
With these high marvels fed his sight, 






XVIII. 


Then sought the chamber's upper end, 






Unbarr'd, unlock'd, unwatch'd, a port 


Where three broad easy steps ascend 






Led to the Castle's outer court : 


To an arch'd portal door. 






There the main fortress, broad and tall, 


In whose broad folding leaves of state 






Spread its long range of bower and hall, 


Was framed a wicket window-grate, 






And towers of varied size, 


And, ere he ventured more. 






Wrought with each ornament extreme, 


The gallant Knight took earnest view 






That Gothic art, in wildest dream 


The grated wicket-window through. 






Of fancy, could devise ; 








But full between the Warrior's way 


XX. 






And the main portal arch, there lay 








An inner moat ; 


0, for his arms ! Of martial weed 






Nor bridge nor boat 


Had never mortal knight such need ! 






Affords De Vaux the means to cross 


He spied a stately gallery ; all 






The clear, profound, and silent fosse. 


Of snow-white marble was the wall. 






His arms aside in haste he flings. 


The vaulting, and the floor ; 






Cuirass of steel and hauberk rings. 


And, contrast strange, on either hand 






And down falls helm, and down tlie shield. 


There stood array'd in sable band 






Rough with the dints of many a field. 


Four Maids whom Afric bore : 






Fair was his manly form, and fair 


And each a Libyan tiger led, 






His keen dark eye, and close curl'd hair. 


Held by as bright and frail a thread 






When, all unarm'd, save that the brand 


As Lucy's golden hair, — 






Of well-proved metal graced his hand, 


For the leash that bound these monsters 






With nought to fence his dauntless breast 


dread 






But the close gipon's * under-vest. 


Was but of gossamer. 






Whose sullied buff the sable stains 


Each Maiden's short barbaric vest 






Of hauberk and of mail retains, — 


Left all unclosed the knee and breast, 






Roland De Vaux upon the brim 


And limbs of shapely jet ; 






Of the broad moat stood prompt to swim. 


White was their vest and turban's fold. 
On arms and ankles rings of gold 






XIX. 


In savage pomp were set ; 






Accoutred thus he dared the tide", 


A quiver on their shoulders lay, 






And soon he reach'd the farther side. 


And in their hand an assagay. 






And enter'd soon the Hold, 


Such and so silent stood they there, 






And paced a hall, whose walls so wide 


That Roland wellnigh hoped 






Were blazon'd all with feats of pride, 
By warriors done of old. 


He saw a band of statues rare. 






Station'd the gazer's soul to scare ; 






In middle lists they counter'd here, 


But when the wicket oped, 






t While trumpets seem'd to blow ; 


Each grisly beast 'gan upward draw. 






'I P And there, in den or desert drear, 


Roll'd his grim eye, and spread his claw, *] 


^ 




They quelled gieantic foe. 


Scented the air, and lick'd his jaw ; 










White these weird maids, in Moorish 

tongue, 




* A sort of doublet, worn beneath the ar- 




mor. 1 


A wild and dismal warning sung. 










, ,/^^ 


^ 


\/. ^ 


M " „ 




^ Py 


^-. 


c-Hi r 


4 1 •> 


y^ 








^ 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 



2<1 



XXI. 
" Rash adventurer, bear thee back ■■ 
Dread the spell of Dahomay 1 
Fear the race of Zaharak,* 
Daughters of the burning day ! 

*' When the whirlwind's gusts are wheeling 

Ours it is the dance to braid ; 
Zarah's sands in pillars reeling, 

Join the measure that we tread, 
When thp Moon has donn'd her cloak, 

And the stars are red to see. 
Shrill when pipes the sad Siroc, 

IMusic meet for such as we. 
" Where the shatter'd columns lie, 

Showing Carthage once had been, 
If the wandering Santon's eye 

Our mysterious rites hath seen, — 
Oft he cons the prayer of death, 

To the nations preaches doom, 
' Azrael's brand hath left the sheath ! 

IMoslems, think upon the tomb ! ' 
" Ours the scorpion, ours the snake, 

Ours the hydra of the fen, 
Ours the tiger of the brake, 

All that plague the sons of men. 
Ours the tempest's midnight wrack, 

Pestilence that wastes by day — 
Dread the race of Zaharak ! 

Fear the spell of Dahomay ? " 

XXII. 

Uncouth and strange the accent shrill 

Rung those vaulted roofs among, 
Long it was ere, faint and still, 
Died the far resounding song. 
While yet the distant echoes roll, 
The Warrior communed with his soul. 
" When first I took this venturous quest, 

1 swore upon the rood, 
Neither to stop, nor turn, nor rest, 

For evil or for good. 
My forward path too well I ween. 
Lies yonder fearful ranks between ! 
For man unarm'd, 'tis bootless hope 
With tigers and with fiends to cope — 
Yetj if I turn, what waits me there, 
Save famine dire and fell despair ? — 
Other conclusion let. me try. 
Since, choose howe'er I list, I die. 
Forward, lies faith and knightly fame ; 
Behind, are perjury and shame. 
In Hfe or death I hold my word ! " 
With that he drew his trusty sword, 
Caught down a banner from the wall, 
And enter'd thus the fearful hall. 

* The Arab name of the great desert. 



XXIII. 
On high each wayward Maiden threw 
Her swarthy arm, with wild halloo 1 
On either side a tiger sprung — 
Against the leftward foe he flung 
The ready banner, to engage 
Witli tangling folds the brutal rage ; 
The right-hand monster in mid-air 
He struck so fiercely and so fair. 
Through gullet and through spinal bone, 
The trenchant blade had sheerly gone. 
His grisly brethren ramp'd and yell'd. 
But the slight leash their rage withheld. 
Whilst, 'twixt their ranks, the dangerous road 
Firmly, though swift, the champion strode. 
Safe to the gallery's bound he drew, 
Safe pass'd an open portal through ; 
.'Ind when against pursuit he flung 
The gate, judge if the echoes rung ! 
Onward his daring course he bore. 
While, mix'd with dying growl and roar, 
Wild jubilee and loud hurra 
Pursued him on his venturous way. 

XXIV. 

" Hurra, hurra ! Our watch is done I 
We hail once more the tropic sun. 
Pallid beams of northern day. 
Farewell, farewell 1 Hurra, hurra ! 

" Five hundred years o'er this cold glen 
Hath the pale sun come round agen ; 
Foot of man, till now, hath ne'er 
Dared to cross the Hall of Fear. 

" Warrior ! thou, whose dauntless heart 
Gives us from our ward to part, 
Be as strong in future trial. 
Where resistance is denial. 

'' Now for Afric's glowing sky, 
Zwenga wide and Atlas high, 

Zaharak and Dahomay ! 

Mount the winds 1 Hurra, hurra ! " 



The wizard song at distance died. 

As if in ether borne astray, 
Whilethrough waste halls and chambers wide 

The Knight pursued his steady way. 
Till to a lofty dome he came. 
That flash'd with such a brilliant flame, 
As if the wealtli of all tlie world 
Were there in rich confusion hurl'd. 
For here the gold, in sandy heaps, 
With duller earth, incorporate, sleeps, 
Was there in ingots piled, and there 
Coin'd badge of empery it bare : 








ih. 



M 



252 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Yonder, huge bars of silver lay, 
Dimm'd by the diamond's neigliboring ray, 
Lilve the pale moon in morning day ; 
And in the midst four Maidens stand, 
The daughters of some distant land. 
Their hue was of the dark-red dye, 
That fringes oft a thunder,, sky ; 
Their hands palmetto baskets bare, 
And cotton fillets bound their hair ; 
Slim was their form, their mien was shy, 
To earth they bent the humbled eye, 
Folded their arms, and suppliant kneel'd, 
And thus their proffer'd gifts reveal'd. 

XXVI. 
CHORUS. 

" See the treasures Merlin piled, 
Portion meet for Arthur's child, 
Bathe in Wealth's unbounded stream. 
Wealth that Avarice ne'er could dream 1 " 

FIRST MAIDEN. 

"See these clots of virgin gold! 
Sever'd from the sparry mould, 
Nature's mystic alchemy 
In the mine thus bade them lie ; 
And their orient smile can win 
Kings to stoop, and saints to sin." — 

SECOND MAIDEN. 

" See these pearls, that long have slept ; 
These were tears by Naiads wept 
For the loss of Marinel. 
Tritons in the silver shell 
Treasured them, till hard and white 
As the teeth of Amphitrite." — 

THIRD MAIDEN. 

" Does a livelier hue delight ? 
Here are rubies l^lazing bright. 
Here the emerald's fairy green, 
And the topaz glows between ; 
Here their varied hues unite. 
In the changeful chrysolite." — 

FOURTH MAIDEN. 

'• Leave these gems of poorer shine, 
Leave them all and look on mine ! 
Wliile their glories I expand. 
Shade thine eyebrows with thy hand. 
Mid-day sun and diamond's blaze 
Blind the rash beliolder's gaze." — 

CHORUS. 

" Warrior, seize the splendid store ; 
Would 't were all our mountains bore ! 
We should ne'er in future story, 
Read, Peru, thy perish'd glory ! " 



Calmly and unconcern'd, the Knight 
Waved aside the treasures bright : — 
" Gentle Maidens, rise, I pray I 
Bar not thus my de-stined way. 
Let these boasted brilliant toys 
Braid the hair of girls and boys ! 
Bid your streams of gold expand 
O'er proud London's thirsty land. 
De Vau.x of wealth saw never need, 
Save to purvey him arms and steed. 
And all the ore he deign'd to hoard 
Inlays his helm, and hilts his sword." 
Thus gently parting from their hold, 
He left, unmoved, the dome of gold. 



And now the morning sun was high, 
De Vaux was weary, faint, and dry ; 
When, lo 1 a plashing sound he hears, 
A gladsome signal that he nears 

Some frolic water-run ; 
And soon he reach'd a court-yard square ; 
Where, dancing in the sultry air, 
Toss'd high aloft, a fountain fair 

Was sparkling in the sun. 
On right and left, a fair arcade, 
In long perspective view display'd 
Alleys and bowers, for sun or shade : 

But, full in front, a door, 
Low-brow'd and dark, seem'd as it led 
To the lone dwelling of the dead. 

Whose memory was no more. 



Here stopp'd De Vaux an instant's space. 
To bathe his parched lips and face, 

And mark'd with well-pleased eye, 
Refracted on the fountain stream, 
In rainbow hues the dazzling beam 

Of that gay summer sl^y. 
His senses felt a mild control. 
Like that which lulls the weary soul. 

From contemplation high. 
Relaxing, when the ear receives 
The music that the greenwood leaves 

Make to the breezes' sisrh. 



And oft in such a dreamy mood, 
The half-shut e>'e can frame 

Fair apparitions in the wood, 

As if the nymphs of field and flood 
In gay procession came. 

Are these of such fantastic mould. 

Seen distant down the fair arcade, 

These Maids enlink'd in sister-fold, 






THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN: 



253 



Who, late at bashful distance staid, 
Now tripping from the greenwood shade, 
Nearer the musing champion draw. 
And, in a pause of seeming awe, 

Again stand doubtful now ? — 
Ah, that sly pause of witching powers ! 
That seems to say, " To please be ours, 

Be yours to tell us how." 
Their hue was of the golden glow 
That suns of Candahar bestow, 
O'er which in slight suffusion flows 
A frequent tinge of paly rose ; 
Their limbs were fashion'd fair and free, 
In nature's justest symmetry ; [graced, 

And, wreath'd with flowers, with odors 
Their raven ringlets reach'd the waist •■ 
In eastern pomp, its gilding pale 
The liennah lent each shapely nail. 
And the dark sumah gave the eye 
More liquid and more lustrous dye. 
The spotless veil of misty lawn, 
In studied disarrangement, drawn 

The form and bosom o'er, 
To win the eye, or tempt the touch, 
For modesty show'd all too mucii — 

Too much — ^yet promised mare. 

XXXI. 

" Gentle Knight, a while delay," 
Thus they sung, '• thy toilsome way. 
While we pay the duty due 
To our Master and to you. 
Over Avarice, over Fear, 
Love triumphant led thee here ; 
Warrior, list to us. for we 
.'\re slai'es to Love, are friends to thee. 
Though no treasured gems have we, 
To proffer on the bended knee, 
Though we boast nor arm nor heart. 
For the assagay or dart. 
Swains allow each simple girl 
Ruby lip and teeth of pearl ; 
Or, if dangers more you prize. 
Flatterers find them in our eyes. 

" Stay, then, gentle Warrior, stay, 
Rest till evening steal on day ; 
Stay, O, stay ! in yonder bowers 
We will braid thy locks with flowers. 
Spread the feast and fill the wine, 
Chaim thy ear with sounds divine, 
Weave our dances till delight 
Yield to languor, day to night. 

" Then shall .she you most approve, 
Sing the lays that best you love, 
Soft thy mossy coucii shall spread, 
Watch thy pillow, prop thy head, 



Till the weary night be o'er — 
Gentle Warrior, wouldst thou more ? 
Wouldst thou more, fair Warrior, — she 
Is slave to Love and slave to thee." 

XXXII. 

O, do not hold it for a crime 
In the bold hero of my rhyme, 

For Stoic look 

And meet rebuke, 
He lack'd the heart or time ; 
As round the band of sirens trip. 
He kiss'd one damsel's laughing lip, 
And press'd another's proffer'd hand. 
Spoke to them all in accents bland. 
But broke their magic circle through ; 
" Kind Maids," he said, " adieu, adieu ! 
My fate, my fortune, forward lies." 
He said, and vaiiish'd from their eyes; 
But, as he dared that darksome way, 
.Still heard behind their lovely lay : — 
" Fair Flower of Courtesy, depart ! 
Go, where the feelings of the heart 
With the warm pulse in concord move ; 
Go, where Virtue sanctions Love ! '■' 

XXXIII. 

Downward De Vau.x through darksome 
ways 

And ruin'd vaults has gone. 
Till issue from their wilder'd maze. 

Or safe retreat, seem'd none, ' 
And e'en the dismal path he strays 

Grew worse as he went on. 
For cheerful sun, for living air. 
Foul vapors rise and mine-fires glare. 
Whose fearful light the dangers"show'd, 
Thai dogg'd him on that dreadful road ; 
Deep pits, and lakes of waters dun. 
They show'd, but show'd not Jiow to shun. 
These scenes of desolate despair. 
These smothering clouds of poison'd air, 
How gladly had De Vau.x exchanged, 
Though 'twere to face yon tiger's range; 

Nay, soothful bards have said. 
So perilous his state seem'd now 
He wish'd liim under arbor bough 

With Asia's willing maid. 
When, joyful sound! at distance near, 
A trumpet flourish'd loud and clear. 
And as it ceased, a lofty lay 
Seem'd thus to chide his lagging way. 

XXXIV. 

" Son of Honor, theme of story, 
Think on the reward before ye! 
Danger, darkness, toil despise ; 
'T is Ambition bids thee rise. 




^SEF 





SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



" He that would her heights ascend, 
Many a weary step must wend ? 
Hand and foot and knee he tries ; 
Thus Ambition's minions rise. 

" Lag not now, though rough the way. 
Fortune's mood broolvs no delay ; 
Grasp the boon tliat's spread before ye, 
Monarch's power, and Conqueror's glory ! " 

It ceased. Advancing on the sound, 
A steep ascent the Wanderer found. 

And then a turret stair : 
Nor climb'd he far its steepy round 

Till fresher blew the air. 
And next a welcome glimpse was given. 
That cheer'd him with the light of heaven. 

At length his toil had won 
A lofty hall with trophies dress'd, 
Where, as to greet imjierial guest. 
Four Maidens stood, whose crimson vest 

Was bound with golden zone. 



Of Europe seem'd the damsels all ; 
The first a nymph of lively Gaul, 
Whose easy step and laughing eye 
Her borrow'd air of awe belie ; 

The next a maid of Spain, 
Dark-eyed, dark-hair' d, sedate, yet bold ; 
White ivory skin and tress of gold, 
Her shy and bashful comrade told 

For daughter of Almaine. 
These maidens bore a royal robe, 
With crown, with sceptre, and with globe. 

Emblems of empery ; 
The fourth a space behind them stood, 
And leant upon a harp, in mood 

Of minstrel ecstasy. 
Of merry England she, in dress 
Like ancient British Druidess. 
Her hair an azure fillet bound, 
Her graceful vesture swept the ground, 

.■\nd, in her hand display'd, 
A crown did that fourth Maiden hold. 
But unadorn'd with gems and gold, 

Of glossy laurel made. 



At once to brave De Vaux knelt down 
These foremost Maidens three, 

And proffer'd sceptre, robe, and crown, 
Liegedom and seignorie, 

O'er many a region wide and fair. 

Destined, they said, for Arthnr's heir ; 
Put homage would he none : — 



" Rather," he said, " De Vaux would ride, 

A Warden of the Border-side, 

In plate and mail, than, robed in pride, 

A monarch's empire own ; 
Rather, far rather, would he be 
A free-l3orn knight of England free, 

Than sit on Despot's throne." 
So pass'd he on, when that fourth Maid, 

As starting from a trance, 
Upon the harp her finger laid ; 
Her magic touch the chords obey'd, 

Their soul awaked at once ! 

SONG OF THE FOURTH MAIDEN, 

" Quake to your foundations deep, 
Stately Towers, and Banner'd Keep, 
Bid your vaulted echoes moan, 
As the dreaded step they own. 
"Fiends, that wait on Merlin's spell, 
Here the foot-fall ! mark it well ! 
Spread your dusty wings abroad, 
Boune ye for your homeward road ! 

" It is His, the first who e'er 
Dared the dismal Hall of Fear; 
His, who hath the snares defied 
Spread by Pleasure, Wealth, and Pride. 

" Quake to your foundations deep, 
Bastion huge, and Turret steep ! 
Tremble, Keep, and totter, Tower I 
This is Gyneth's waking hour." 

XXXVII. 

Thus while she sung, the venturous Knight 
Has reach'd a bower, where milder light 

Through crimson curtains fell ; 
Such soften'd shade the hill receives, 
Her purple veil when twilight leaves 

Upon its western swell. 
That bower, the gazer to bewitch. 
Hath wondrous store of rare and rich 

As e'er was seen with eye ; 
For there by magic skill, I wis, 
Form of each thing that living is 

Was limn'd in proper dye. 
All seem'd to sleep — the timid hare 
On form, the stag upon his lair. 
The eagle in lier eyrie fair 

Between the earth and sky. 
But what of pictured rich and rare 
Could win De Vaux's eye-glance, where, 
Deep slumbering in the fatal chair, 

He saw King Arthur's ciiildl 
Doubt, and anger, and dismay, 
From her brow had pass'd away, 
Forgot was that fell tourney-day, 

For, ao she slept, she smiled : 




w 



i^ 



3J 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 



255 



It seem'd, that the repentint Seer 

Her sleep of many a hundred year 

With gentle dreams beguiled. 

XXXVIII. 

That form of maiden loveliness, 

'Twixt childhood and 'twixt youth. 
That ivory chair, that sylvan dress, 
The arms and ankles bare, express 

Of Lyulph's tale the truth. 
Still upon her garments hem 
Vance's blood made purple gem, 
And the warder of command 
Cumber'd still her sleeping hand ; 
Still her dark locks dishevell'd flow 
From net of pearl o'er breast of snow ; 
And so fair the slumberer seems. 
That De Vaux inipeach'd his dreams, 
Vapid all and void of might, 
Hiding half her charms from sight. 
Motionless a while he stands, 
Folds Ills arms and clasps his hands, 
Trembling in his fitful joy, 
Doubtful how he should destroy 

Long-enduring spell ; 
Doubtful, too, when slowly rise 
Dark-fringed I'ds of Gyneth's eyes. 

What these eyes shall tell. — 
" St. George 1 St. Mary ! can it be. 
That they will kindly look on me 1 

XXXIX. 

Gently, lo ! the Wariior kneels, 
Soft that lovely hand lie steals, 
Soft to kiss, and soft to clasp — 
But the warder leaves her grasp ; 

Lightning flashes, rolls the thunder, 
Gyneth startles from her sleep, 
Totters Tower, and trembles Keep, 

Burst the Castle-walls asunder ! 
Fierce and frequent were the shocks, — 

Melt the magic halls away ; 

But beneath their mystic rocks, 

In the arms of bold De Vaux, 

Safe the princess lay ; 
Safe and free from magic power, 
Blushing like the rose's flower 

Opening to the day ; 
And round the champion's brows were 

bound 
The crown that Druidess had wound. 

Of the green laurel-bay. 
And this was what remain'd of all 
The wealth of that enchanted hall, 

The Garland and the Dame : 
But where should Warrior seek the meec!, 
Due to high worth for daring deed. 

Except from Love and Fame 1 '■* 



CONCLUSION. 



My Lucy, when the Maid is won. 

The Minscrel's task, though knows't, is done ; 

And to require of bard 
That to his dregs the tale should run, 

Were ordinance too hard. 
Our lovers, briefly be it said. 
Wedded as lovers wont to wed, 

When tale or play is o'er ; 
Lived long and blest, loved fond and true. 
And saw a numerous race renew 

The honors that they bore. 
Know, too, that when a pilgrim strays, 
In morning mist or evening maze, 

Along the mountain lone. 
That fairy fortress often mocks 
His gaze upon the castled rocks 

Of the Valley of St. John ; 
But never man since brave Dc Vaux 

The charmed portal won. 
'Tis now a vain illusive show, 
That melts whene'er the sunbeams glow 

Or the fresh breeze hath blown. 



But see, my love, where far below 
Our lingering wheels are moving slow, 

The whiles, up-gazing still. 
Our menials eye our steepy way. 
Marvelling, perchance, what whim cai 

stay 
Our steps, when eve is sinking gray, 

On tliis gigantic hill. 
So think the vulgar — Life and time 
Ring all their joys in one dull chime 

Of luxury and ease; 
And, O ! beside these simple knaves 
How many better born are slaves 

To such coarse joys as these, — 
Dead to the nobler sense that glows 
When Nature's grander scenes unclose! 
But, Lucy, we will love them yet. 
The mountain's misty coronet, 

The greenwood, and the wold ; 
And love the more, that of their maze 
Adventure high of other days 

By ancient bards is told. 
Bringing, perchance, like my poor tale, 
Some moral truth in fiction's veil : 
Nor love them less, that o'er the hill 
The evening breeze, as now, comes chill— 

My love shall wrap her warm. 
And, fearless of the slippery way. 
While safe she trips the heathy brae, 

Shall hang on Arthur's arm- 





M. 




THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



IN SIX CANTOS. 



ADVERTISEMENT TO THE FIRST EDITION. 

The scefee cf this poe77i lies, at first, in the Castle of Ariornish, on the coast of Argylf 
^hirc ; and, afterwards, in the Islands of Skye and Arran, and npon t/ie coast of Ayreshire. 
Finally, it is laid near Stirling. The story opens in the spring of the year 1307, wlicn Brnce, 
ivlio had beeti driven out of Scotland by the English, and the Barons who adhered to that 
foreign interest, returned from the Island of Rachrin, on the coast of Ireland, again to 
assert his claims to the Scottish cro-wn. Many of the personages and incidents introduced arc 
of historical celebrity. The authorities -used are chiejly those of the venerable Lord Hailes, 
as ivell entitled to be called the restorer of Scottish history, as Bruce the restorer of Scottish 
monarchy ; and of Archdeacon Barbour, a correct edition of whose Metrical History of 
Robert Brtice will soon, I trust, appear under the care of my learned frieitd, the Rev. 
Dr. Jainieson, 

Abbotsford, loth December, 1S14. 



INTRODUCTION TO EDITION 1830. 

_ I COULD hardly have chosen a subject more popular in Scotland, than anythhig connected 
with the Bruce's history, unless I had attempted that of Wallace. But I am decidedly of opmion, 
that a popular, or what is called a taking title, though well qualified to ensure the publishers 
against loss, and clear their shelves of the original impression, is rather apt to be hazardous than 
otherwise to the reputation of the author. He -who attempts a subject of distinguished popu- 
larity, has not the privilege of awakening the enthusiasm of his audience ; on the contrary, it is 
already awakened, and glows, it may be, more ardently than that of the author himself. In this 
case, the warmth of the author is inferior to that of the party whom he addresses, who has, 
therefore, little chance of being, in Bayes's phrase, " elevated' and surprised" by what he has 
thought of with more enthusiasm than the writer. The sense of this risk, joined to the con- 
sciousness of striving against wind and tide, made the task of composing the proposed Poem 
somewhat heavy and hopeless ; but, like the prize-fighter in " As You Like It," I was to wrestle 
for my reputation, and not neglect any advantage. In a most agreeable pleasure-voyage, which 
\ have tried to commemorate m the Introduction to the new edition cf the "Pirate," I visited, 
in social and friendly company, the coasts and islands of Scotland, and made myself acquainted 
with the localities of which I meant to treat. But this voyage, which was in every other effect 
so_ delightful, was in its conclusion saddened by one of those strokes of fate which so often 
mingle themselves with our pleasures. The accomplished and excellent person who had rec- 
ommended to me the subject for " The Lay of the Last Minstrel," and to whom I proposed to 
inscribe what I already suspected might be the close of my poetical labors, was unexpectedly 
removed from the world, which she seemed only to have visited for purposes of kindness and 
benevolence. It is needless to say how the author's feelings, or the composition of his trifling 
work, were affected by a circumstanoe which occasioned so many tears and so much sorrow. 
True it is, that "The Lord of the Isles " was concluded, unwillingly and in haste, under the 
painful feeling of one who has a task which must be finished, rather than with the ardor of one 
who endeavors to perform that task well. Although the Poem cannot be said to have made a 
tavorable impression on the public, the sale of fifteen thousand copies enabled the author to 
tetreat from the field with the honors of war. 

In the mean time, what was necessarily to be considered as a failure, was much reconciled to 
tny feelings by thesucceso attending myattempt in another species of composition. " Waverley 




THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



257 



had, under strict incognito, taken its flight from the press, just before I set out upon the voyage 
already mentioned ; it had now made its way to popularity, and the success of that work, and 
the volumes wliich followed, was sufficient to have satisfied a greater appetite for applause than 
I have at any time possessed.* 

I may as well add in this place, that, being much urged by my intimate friend, now unhappily 
no more, William Erskine (a Scottish judge, by the title of Lord Kinnedder), I agreed to write 
the little romantic tale called the " Bridal of Triermain " ; but it was on the condition that he 
should make no serious effort to disown the composition, if report should lay it at his door. As 
he was more than suspected of a taste for poetry, and as I took care, in several places, to mix 
something which might resemble (as far as was in my power) my friend's feeling and manner, the 
train easily caught, and two large editions were sold. A third being called for. Lord Kinnedder 
became unwilling to aid any longer a deception which was going further than he expected or 
desired, and the real author's name was given. Upon another occasion, I sent up another of 
these trifles, which, like schoolboys' kites, served to show how the wind of popular taste was 
setting. The manner was supposed to be that of a rude minstrel or Scald, in opposition to the 
" Bridal of Triermain," which was designed to belong rather to the Italian school. 

This new fugitive piece was called " Harold the Dauntless " ; and I am still astonished at my 
having committed the gross error of selecting the very name which Lord Byron had made so 
famous. It encountered rather an odd fate. My ingenious friend, Mr. James Hogg, had pub- 
lished about the same time, a work called the " Poetic Mirror," containing imitations of the 
principal living poets. There was in it a very good imitation of my own style, which bore such a 
resemblance to " Harold the Dauntless," that there w^as no discovering the original from the 
imitation ; and I believe that many who took the trouble of thinking upon the subject, were 
rather of opinion that my ingenious friend was the true, and not the fictitious Simon Pure. 
Since this period, which was m the year 1817, the author has not been an intruder on the public 
by any poetical work of importance. 

Abbotsford, April, 1830. W. S. 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



CANTO FIRST. 



Autumn departs^ but still his mantle's 

fold 
Rests on the groves of noble Somerville,t 
Beneath a shroud of russet dropp'd with 

gold 
Tweed and his tributaries mingle still ; 
Hoarser the wind, and deeper sounds the 

rill, 
Yet lingering notes of sylvan music 

swell, 
The deep-toned cushat, and the red-breast 

shrill ; 
And yet some tints of summer splendor 

tell 



* The first edition of Waverley appeared in 
July, 1S14. 

t The Pavilion, the residence of Lord 
Somerville, situated on the Tweed, over against 
Melrose, and in sight of Abbotsford. 

17 




When the broad sun sinks down on Et- 
trick's western fell. 

Autumn departs — from Gala's fields no 

more 
Come rural sounds our kindred banks to 

cheer ; 
Blent with the stream, and gale that 

wafts it o'er, 
No more "the distant reaper's mirth we 

hear. 
The last blithe shout hath died upon 

our ear, 
And harvest-home hath hush'd the clang- 
ing wain. 
On the waste hill no forms of life appear. 
Save where, sad laggard of the autumnal 

train, 
Some age-struck wanderer gleans few ears 

of scatter'd grain. 






SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



Deem'st thou these saddened scenes have 

pleasure still, 
Lovest thou through Autumn's fading 

realms to stray, 
To see the heath-flower wither'd on the 

hill, 
To listen to the wood's expiring lay, 
To note the red leaf shivering on the 

spray, 
To mark the last bright tints the mountain 

stain, 
On the waste fields to trace the gleaner's 

way, 
And moralize on mortal joy and pain ? — 
1 if such scenes thou lovest, scorn not the 

minstrel strain. 

Mo ! do not scorn, although its hoarser 

note 
Scarce with the cushat's homely song can 

vie. 
Though faint its beauties as the tints 

remote 
That gleam through mist in autumn's 

evening sky, 
And few as leaves that tremble, sear and 

dry. 
When wild November hath his bugle 

wound ; 
Nor mock my toil — a lonely gleaner I 
Through fields time-wasted, on sad in 

quest bound, 
Where happier bards of yore have ricter 

found. 

So shalt thou list, and haply not unmoved, 

To a wild tale of Albyn's warrior day ; 

In distant lands, by the rough West 
reproved. 

Still live some relics of the ancient lay. 

For, when on Coolin's hills the lights 
decay. 

With such the Seer of Skye the eve be- 
guiles ; 

'Tis known amidst the pathless wastes of 
Reay 

In Harries known, and in lona's piles, 
Where rest from mortal coil the Mighty of 
the Isles. 



1. 

'<Wake, Maid of Loml" the Minstrels 

sung. 
Thy rugged hails, Artornish t rung,' 



And the dark seas, thy towers that lave. 
Heaved on the beach a softer wave. 
As 'mid the tuneful choir to keep 
The diapason of the Deep. 
Lull'd were the winds of Inninmore, 
And green Loch-Alline's woodland shore, 
As if wild woods and waves had pleasure 
In listing to the lovely measure. 
And ne'er to symphony more sweet 
Gave mountain echoes answer meet, 
Since, met from mainland and from isle, 
Ross, Arran, Hay, and Argyle, 
Each minstrel's tributary lay 
Paid homage to the festal day. 
Dull and dishonor'd were the bard. 
Worthless of guerdon and regard, 
Deaf to the hope of minstrel fame, 
Or lady's smiles, his noblest aim. 
Who on that morn's resistless call 
Were silent in Artornish hall. 



" Wake, Maid of Lorn ! " 'twas thus they 

sung. 
And yet more proud the descant rung, 
" Wake, Maid of Lorn 1 high right is ours. 
To charm dull sleep from Beauty's bowers; 
Earth, Ocean, Air, have nought so shy 
But owns the power of minstrelsy. 
In Lettermore the timid deer 
Will pause, the harp's wild chime to hear ; 
Rude Heisker's seal through surges dark 
Will long pursue the minstrel's bark ; - 
To list his notes, the eagle proud 
Will poise him on Ben-Cailliach's cloud ; 
Tiien let no Maiden's ear disdain 
The summons of the minstrel train. 
But while our harps wild music make, 
Edith of Lorn, awake, awake I 



" O wake, while Dawn, with dewy shine. 
Wakes Natiu-e's charms to vie with thine I 
She bids the mottled thrush rejoice 
To mate thy melody of voice ; 
The dew that on the violet lies 
Mocks the dark lustre of thine eyes ; 
But, Edith, wake, and all we see 
Of sweet and fair shall yield to thee ! '' — 
" She comes not yet," gray Ferrand cried : 
'■' Brethren, let softer spell be tried, 
Those notes prolong'd, that soothing theme 
Which best may mix with Beauty's dream, 
And whisper, with their silvery tone, 
The hope she lovrs, yet fears to own." 
He spoke, and on the harp-strings died 
The strains of flattery and of pride; 







THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



259 



More soft, more low, more tender fell 
The lay of love he bade ih^m tell. 

IV. 

" Wake, Maid of Lorn ! the moments fly, 

Which yet that maiden-name allow ; 
Wake, Maiden, wake 1 the hour is nigh 

When Love shall claim a plighted vow. 
By Fear, thy bosom's fluttering guest, 

By Hope, that soon shall fears remove, 
We bid thee break the bonds of rest, 

\nd wake thee at the call of Love ! 

" Wake, Edith, wake ! in yonder bay 

Lies many a galley gayly mann'd, 
We hear the merry pibrochs play. 

We see the streamers' silken band. 
What Chieftain's praise these pibrochs 
swell, 

What crest is on these banners wove, 
The harp, the minstrel, dare not tell — 

The riddle must be read by Love. " 
V. 
Retired her maiden train among, 
Edith of Lorn received the song, 
But tamed the minstrel's pride had been 
That had her cold demeanor seen ; 
For not upon her cheek awoke 
The glow of pride when Flattery spoke. 
Nor could their tenderest numbers bring 
One sigh responsive to the string. 
As vainly had her maidens vied 
In skill to deck the princely bride. 
Her locks, in dark-brown length array'd, 
Cathleen of Ulne, 'twas thine to braid ; 
Young Eva with meet reverence drew 
On the light loot the silken shoe. 
While on the ankle's slender round 
Those strings of pearl fair Bertha wound, 
That, bleach'd Lochryan's depths within, 
Seem'd dusky still on Edith's skin. 
But Einion, of experience old. 
Had weightiest task — the mantle's fold 
In many an artful plait she tied, 
To show the form it seem'd to hide, 
Till on the floor descending roll'd 
Its waves of crimson blent with gold. 



O ! lives there now so cold a maid. 
Who thus in beauty's pomp array'd, 
In beauty's proudest pitch of power. 
And conquest won — the bridal hour — 
With every charm that wins the heart. 
By Nature given, enhanced by Art, 
Could yet the fair reflection view, 
In the bright mirror pictured true. 



And not one dimple on her cheek 

A tell-tale consciousness bespeak ? 

Lives still such maid ? — Fair damsels, say, 

For fm-ther vouches not my lay. 

Save that such lived in Britain's isle. 

When Lorn's bright Edith scorn'd to smile 

VII. 

But Morag, to whose fostering care 
Proud Lorn had given his daughter fair, 
Morag, who saw a mother's aid 
By all a daughter's love repaid. 
(Strict was that bond — most kind of all- 
Inviolate in Highland hall) — 
Gray Morag sate a space apart. 
In Edith's eyes to read her heart. 
In vain the attendants' fond appeal 
To Morag's skill, to INIorag's zeal ; 
She mark"d her child receive their care, 
Cold as the image sculptured fair, 
(Form of some sainted patroness,) 
Which cloister'd maids combine to dress ; 
She mark'd — and knew her nursling's hear 
In the vain pomp took little part. 
Wistful a while she gazed — then press'd 
The maiden to her anxious breast 
In finish'd loveliness — and led 
To where a turret's airy head. 
Slender and steep, and battled roimd, 
O'erlook'd, dark Mull 1 thy mighty Sound, 
Where thwarting tides, with mingled roar. 
Part thy swarth hills from Morven's shore. 

VIII. 

" Daughter," she said, "these seas behold, 
Round twice a hundred islands roll'd. 
From Hirt, that hears their northern roar, 
To the green Hay's fertile shore ; 
Or mainland turn, where many a tower 
Owns thy bold brother's feudal power, 
Each on its own dark cape reclined. 
And listening to its own wild wind. 
From where Mingarry, sternly placed, 
O'erawes the woodland and the waste, 
To where Dunstaffnage hears the raging 
Of Connal with his rocks engaging. 
Think'st thou, amid this ample round, 
A single brow but thine has frown'd. 
To sadden this auspicious morn. 
That bids the daughter of high Lorn 
Impledge her spousal faith to wed 
The heir of mighty Somarled ! ■* 
Ronald, from many a hero sprung. 
The fair, the valiant, and the young. 
Lord of the Isles, whose lofty name* 
A thousand bards have given to fame, 
The mate of monarchs, and allied 
On equal terms with England's pride. — 







2bo 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 




From chieftain's tower to bondsman's cot, 
Who hears the tale, and triumphs not ? 
The damsel dons her best attire, 
The shepherd lights his beltane fire, 
Joy, joy ! eacli warder's horn hath sung, 
Joy, joy 1 each matin bell hath rung ; 
The holy priest says grateful mass, 
Loud shouts each hardy galla-glass, 
No mountain den holds outcast boor. 
Of heart so dull, of soul so poor. 
But he hath flung his task aside, 
And claim'd tliis morn for holy-tide ; 
"i'ct, empress of this joyful day, 
Edith is sad while all are gay." — 

IX. 

Proud Edith's soul came to her eye, 

Resentment check'd the struggling sigh. 

Her hurrying hand indignant dried 

The burning tears of injured pride — 

" Morag, forbear ! or lend thy praise 

To swell yon hireling harpers' lays ; 

Make to yon maids thy boast of power, 

That they may waste a wondering hour. 

Telling of banners proudly borne. 

Of peahng bell and bugle-horn. 

Or, theme more dear, of robes of price, 

Crownlets and gauds of rare device. 

But thou, experienced as thou art, 

Think'st thou with these to cheat the heart. 

That, bound in strong affection's chain. 

Looks for return and looks in vain ? 

No 1 sum thine Edith's wretched lot 

In these brief words — He loves her not ! 

X. 

" Debate it not — too long I strove 

To call his cold observance love, 

All blinded by the league that styled 

Edith of Lorn — while yet a child. 

She tripp'd the heath by Morag's side, — 

The brave Lord Ronald's destined bride. 

Ere yet I saw him, while afar 

His broadsword blazed in Scotland's war, 

Train'd to believe our fates the same, 

My bosom throbbed when RonaWs name 

Came gracing Fame's heroic tale. 

Like perfume on the summer gale. 

What pilgrim sought our halls, nor told 

Of Ronald's deeds in battle bold? 

Who touch'd the harp to heroes' praise, 

But his achievements swell'd the lays ? 

Even Morag — not a tale of fame 

Was hers but closed with Ronald's name. 

He came ! and all that had been told 

I )f his high worth seem'd poor and cold. 

Tame, lifeless, void of energy, 

Unjust to Ronald and to mel 



" Since then, what thought had Edith'a 

heart 
And gave not plighted love its part ! — 
And what requital ? cold delay — 
Excuse that shunn'd the spousal day. — 
It dawns, and Ronald is not here ! — 
Hunts he Bentalla's nimble deer, 
Or loiters hei»in secret dell 
To bid some lighter love farewell. 
And swear, that though he ma}' not scorn 
A daughter of the House of Lorn,'' 
Yet, when these formal rites are o'er. 
Again they meet, to part no more ? " 



— '■' Hush, daughter, hush 1 thy doubts re 

move. 
More nobly think of Ronald's love. 
Look, where beneath the castle gray 
His fleet unmoor from Aros bay ! 
See'sl not eacii galley's topmast bend, 
As on the yards the sails ascend? 
Hiding the dark-blue land, they rise 
Like the white clouds on April skies ; 
The shouting vassals man the oars. 
Behind them sink MulTs mountain shores, 
Onward their merry course they keep, 
Through whistling breeze and foaming 

deep. 
And mark the headmost, seaward cast, 
Stoop to the freshening gale her mast. 
As if she veil'd its banner'd pride, 
To greet afar her prince's bride ! 
Thy Ronald comes, and while in speed 
His galley mates the flying steed. 
He chides her sloth ! " — Fair Edith sigh'd, 
Blush'd, sadly smiled, and thus replied : — 



" Sweet thought, but vain ! — No, Moragl 

mark. 
Type of his course, yon lonely bark. 
That oft hath shifted helm and sail. 
To win its way against the gale. 
Since peep of morn, my vacant eyes 
Have view'd by fits the course she tries; 
Now, though the darkening scud comes on, 
And dawn's fair promises be gone. 
And though the weary crew may see 
Our sheltering haven on their lee, 
Still closer to the rising wind 
They strive her shivering sail to bind, 
Still nearer to the sh.elves' dread verge 
At every tack their course they urge. 
As if they fear'd Artornish more 
Than adverse winds and breakers' lor.r. 





■ Borne onward by the willing breeze, 
Lord Ronald's fleet swept by." 

The Lord of the Isles, canto i. 15- 



4C 




THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



261 



Sooth spoke the maid. — Amid the tide 

The skiff she mark'd lay tossing sore, 
And sliifted oft her stooping side, 
In weary tack from shore to shore. 
Yet on her destined course no more 

She gain'd, of forward way, 
Than wliat a minstrel may compare 
To the poor meed which peasants share, 

Who toil the livelong day ; 
And such the risk her pilot braves, 

That oft, before she wore 
Her bowsprit kiss'd the broken waves. 
Where in white foam the ocean laves 

Upon the shelving sliore. 
Yet, to their destined purpose true. 
Undaunted toil'd her hardy crew. 

Nor look'd where shelter lay, 
Nor for Artornish Castln drew,, 

Nor steer'd for Aros bay. 

XV. 

Thus while they strove with wind and seas. 
Borne onward by the willing breeze, 

Lord Ronald's fleet swept by, 
Streamer'd with silk, and trick'd with gold, 
Mann'd with the noble and the bold 

Of Island chivalry. 
Around their prows the ocean roars. 
And chafes beneath their thousand oars, 

Yet bears them on their way ; 
So chafes the war-horse in his might, 
That fieldward bears some valiant knight. 
Champs, till both bit and boss are white. 

But, foaming, must obey. 
On each gay deck they might behold 
Lances of steel and crests of gold. 
And hauberks with their burnish'd fold. 

That shimmer'd fair and free ; 
And each proud galley, as she pass'd, 
To the wild cadence of the blast 

Gave wilder minstrelsy. 
Full many a shrill triumphant note 
Saline and Scallastle bade float 

Their misty shores around ; 
And Morven's echoes answer'd well, 
And Duart heard the distant swell 

Come down the darksome Sound. 

XVI. 

So bore they on with mirth and pride. 
And if that laboring bark they spied, 

'Twas with such idle eye 
As nobles cast on lowly boor. 
When, toiling in his task obscure, 

They pass him careless by. 
Let them sweep on with heedless eyes ! 
But, had they known what mighty prize 



In that frail vessel lay. 
The famish'd wolf, that prowls the wold, 
Had scatheless pass'd the unguarded fold, 
Ere, drifting by these galleys bold, 

Unchallenged were her way ! 
And thou, Lord Ronald, sweep thovt on. 
With mirth, and pride, and minstrel tone 1 
But nadst thou known who sail'd so nigh, 
Far other glance were in thine eye I 
Far other flush were on thy brow, 
That, shaded by the bonnet, now 
Assumes but ill the blithesome clieer 
Of bridegroom when the bride is near ! 

XVII. 

Yes, sweep they on ! — We will not leave, 
For them that triumph, those who grieve 

With that armada gay 
Be laughter loud and jocund shout. 
And bards to cheer the wassail route. 

With tale, romance, and lay ; 
And of wild mirth each clamorous art 
Which, if it cannot cheer the heart, 
May stupefy and stun its smart, 

For one loud busy day. 
Yes, sweep they on ! — But with that skiS 

Abides the minstrel tale. 
Where there was dread of surge and clif^ 
Labor that strained each sinew stiff, 

And one sad Maiden's wail. 

XVIII. 

All day with fruitless strife they toil'^, 
With eve the ebbing currents boil'd 

More fierce from strait and lake ; 
And midway through the channel met 
Conflicting tides that foam and fret, 
And high their mingled billows jet, 
As spears, that, m the battle set. 

Spring upward as they break. 
Then, too, the lights of eve were past. 
And louder sung the western blast 

On rocks of Inninmore; 
Rent was the sail, and strain'd the mast, 
And many a leak was gaping fast. 
And the pale steersman stood aghast. 

And gave the conflict o'er. 

XIX. 

'Twas then that One, whose lofty look 
Nor labor dull'd nor terror shook. 

Thus to the Leader spoke ; — 
" Brother, how hopest thou to abide 
The fury of this wilder'd tide, 
Or how avoid the rock's rude side, 

Until the day has broke ? 
Didst thou not mark the vessel reel, 
With quivering planks, and groaning keel 

At the last billow's shock .' 






262 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Yet how of better counsel tell. 
Though here tViou see'st poor Isabel 

Half dead with want and fear ; 
For look on sea, or look on land, 
On yon dark sky — on every hand 

Despair and death are near. 
For her alone I grieve, — on me 
Danger sits light, by land and sea, 

f follow where thou wilt ; 
Either to bide the tempest's lour, 
Or wend to yon unfriendly tower, 
Or rush amid their naval power, 
With war-cry wake their wassail-hour. 

And die with hand on hilt." 



That elder Leader's calm reply 

In steady voice was given, 
" In man's most dark extremity 

Oft succor dawns from Heaven. 
Edward, trim thou the shatter' d sail. 
The helm be mine, and down the gale 

Let our free course be driven ; 
So shall we 'scape tlie western bay. 
The hostile fleet, the unequal fray, 
So safely hold our vessel's way 

Beneath the Castle wall ; 
For if a hope of safety rest, 
'Tis on the sacred name of guest, 
Wlio seeks for shelter, storm-distress'd, 

Within a chieftain's hall. 
If not — it best beseems our worth, 
Our name, our right, our lofty birth, 

By noble hands to fall" 



The helm, to iiis strong arm consign'd, 
Gave the reef'd sail to meet the wind, 

And on her alter'd way, 
Fierce bounding, forward sprung the ship, 
Like greyhound starting from the slip 

To seize his flying pre}-. 
Awaked before the rushing prow. 
The mimic fires of ocean glow, 

Those lightnings of the wave ; 
Wild sparkles crest the broken tides. 
And, flashing round, the vessel's sides 

With elvish lustre lave, 
While, far behind, their livid light 
To the dark billows of the night 

A gloomy splendor gave, 
It seems as if old Ocean shakes 
From his dark brow the lucid flakes 

In envious pageantrv. 
To match the meteor-light that streaks 

Grim Hecla's midnight sky. 



Nor lack'd they steadier liglit to keep 
Their course upon the darkeivd deep ;-• 
Artornish, on her frowning steep 

'Twixt cloud and ocean hung, 
Glanced with a tiiousand lights of glee, 
And landward far, and far to sea, 

Her festal radiance flung. 
By that blithe beacon-light they steer'd, 

Whose lustre mingled well 
With the pale beam that now appear'd, 
.\s the cold moon her liead uprear'd 

Above the Eastern tell. 



Thus guided, on t'aeir course they bore, 
Until tliey near'd the mainland shore, 
When fiequent on tiie hollow blast 
Wild shouts of merriment were cast, 
And wind and wave and sea-birds, cry 
With wassail sounds in concert vie. 
Like funeral shrieks with revelry, 

Or like the baltle-shout 
"y peasants heard from cliffs on high, 
When Triumph, Rage, and Agony, 

Madden the fight and route. 
Mow nearer yet, through mist and storm 
Dimly arose the Castle's form, 

And dcepen'd shadow made, 
Far lengthen'd on the main below, 
Where, dancing in reflected glow, 

A himdred torches play'd. 
Spangling the wave with lights as vaia 
As pleasures in this vale of pain. 

That dazzle as they fade. • 



Beneath the Castle's sheltering lee, 
They staid their course in quiet sea. 
Hewn in the rock, a passage there 
Sought the dark fortress by a stair. 

So straight, so high, so steep. 
With peasant's staff one valiant hand 
Might well the dizzy pass have mann'd, 
'Gainst hundreds arm'd witli spear and 
brand. 

And plunged them in the deep. 
His bugle then the helmsman wound ; 
Loud answer'd every echo round, 

From turret, roclc, and bay. 
The postern's hinges crash and groan. 
And soon the warder's cresset shone 
On those rude steps of slippery stone, 

To light the upward way. 
" Tiuice welcome, holy Sire 1 " he said ; 
" Full long the spousal train have staid, 

And, vex'd at thy delay, 







THE LORD OF THE ISLEi,. 



263 



Fear'd lest, amidst these wildering seas, 
The darkbome night and freshening breeze 
Had driven thy bark astray." 

XXV, 

"Warder," the younger stranger said, 
"' Thine erring guess some mirtli liad made 
In mirthful hour ; but nights hke these. 
When the rough winds wake western seas, 
Brook not of glee. We crave some aid 
And needful shelter for this maid 

Until the break of day ; 
For, to ourselves, the deck's rude plank 
Is easy as the mossy bank 

That's breath'd upon by May. 
And for our storm-toss'd skiff we seek 
Short shelter in this leeward creek, 
Prompt when the dawn the east shall 
streak 

Again to bear away." — 
Answer'd the Warder, — " In what name 
Assert ye hospitable claim ? 

Whence come, or whither bound ? 
Hath Erin seen your parting sails ? 
Or come ye on Norweyan gales ? 
And seek ye England's fertile vales, 

Or Scotland's mountain ground ? " — 

XXVI. 

" Warriors — for other title none 
For some brief space we hst to own. 
Bound by a vow — warriors are we ; 
In strife by land, and storm by sea. 

We have been known to fame ; 
And these brief words have import dear, 
When sounded in a noble ear. 
To harbor safe, and friendly cheer, 

That gives us rightful claim. 
Grant us the trival boon we seek. 
And we in other realms will speak 

Fair of your courtesy ; 
Deny — and be your niggard Hold 
Scorn'd by the noble and the bold, 
Shimn'd by the pilgrim on the wold, 

And wanderer on the leal " — 

XXVII. 

Bold^ stranger, no — 'gainst claim like 
thine. 
No bolt revolves by hand of mine, 
Though urged in tone that more express'd 
A monarch than a suppliant guest. ' 
Be what ye will, Artornish Hall 
On this glad eve is free to all. 
Though ye had drawn a hostile sword 
'Gainst our ally, great England's Lord, 
Or mail upon your shoulders borne, 
To battle with the Lord of Lorn. 



Or, outlaw'd, dwelt by greenwood tree 
With the fierce Knight of Ellerslie,* 
Or aided even the murderous strife, 
When Comyn fell beneath the knife 
Of that fell homicide The Bruce, 
This night had been a term of truce. — 
Ho, vassals ! give these guests your care, 
And show the narrow postern stair." 

XXVIII. 

To land these two bold brethren leapt, 
(The weary crew their vessel kept,"* 
And, lighted by the torches' flare. 
That seaward flung their smoky glare, 
The younger knight that maiden bare 

Half lifeless up the rock ; 
On his strong shoulder lean'd her head, 
And down her long dark tresses shed, 
As tlie wild vines in tendrils spread, 

Droops from the mountain oak. 
Him follow'd close that elder Lord, 
And in his hand a sheathed sword, 

Such as few arms could wield ; 
But when he boun'd him to such task. 
Well could it cleave the strongest casque, 

And rend the surest shield, 

XXIX, 

The raised portcullis' arch they pass, 
The wicket with its bars of brass, 

The entrance long and low, 
Flank'd at each turn by loop-holes strait. 
Where bowmen might in ambush wait, 
(If force or fraud should burst the gate,) 

To gall an entering foe. 
But every jealous post of ward 
Was now defenceless and unbarr'd, 

And all the passage free 
To one low-brow' d and vaulted room, 
Where squire and. yeoman, page and 
groom, 

Plied their loud revelry. 

XXX. 

And " Rest ye here," the Warder bade, 
" Till to our Lord your suit is said. — 
And, comrades, gaze not on the maid, 
And on these men who ask our aid, 

As if ye ne'er had seen 
A damsel tired of midnight bark, 
Or wanderers of a moulding stark, 

And bearing martial mien." 
But not for Eachin's reproof 
Would page or vassal stand aloof. 

But crowded on to stare, 
As men of courtesy untaught. 
Till fiery Edward roughly caught, 



* Sir William Wallace, 







264 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



From one the foremost there, 
His checker'd plaid, and in its shroud, 
To hide her from the vulgar crowd, 

Involved his sister fair. 
His brother, as the clansman bent 
His sullen brow in discontent. 

Made brief and stern excuse ; — 
" Vassal, were thine the cloak of pall 
That decks thy lord in bridal hall, 

'Twere honor'd by her use." 



Proud was his tone, but calm ; his eye 

Had that compelling dignity, 

His mien that bearing haught and high, 

Which common spirits fear ! 
Needed nor word nor signal more, 
Nod, wink, and laughter, all were o'er ; 
Upon each other back they bore, 

And gazed like startled deer. 
But now appear'd the Seneschal, 
Commission'd by his Lord to call 
The strangers to the Baron's hall, 
Where feasted fair and free 
That Island Prince in nuptial tide, 
With Edith there his lovely bride, 
And her bold brother by her side, 
And many a chief, the flower and pride 
Of Western land and sea. 

Here pause we, gentles, for a space ; 
And if our tale hath won your grace, 
Grant us brief patience, and again 
We will renew the minstrel strain. 



CANTO SECOND. 

Fill the bright goblet, spread the fes- 
tive board ! 
Summon the gay, the noble, and the 

fair 1 
Through the loud hall in joyous concert 

pour'd. 
Let m'u th and music sound the dirge of 

Care ! 
But ask thou not if Happiness be there, 
If the loud laugh disguise convulsive 

throe. 
Or if the brow the heart's true livery 

wear ; 
Lift not the festal mask ! — enough to 

know, 
No scene of mortal life but teems with 

mortal woe. 



With beakers' clang, with Harpers' lay, 
With all that olden time deem'd gay, 
The Island Chieftain feasted high ; 
But there was in his troubled eye 
A gloomy fire, and on his brow, 
Now sudden flush'd, and faded now, 
Emotions such as draw their birth 
From deeper source than festal mirth. 
By fits he paused, and harper's strain 
And jester's tale went round in vain, 
Or fell but on his idle ear 
Like distant sounds which dreamers hear. 
Then would he rouse him, and employ 
Each art to aid the clamorous joy. 

And call for pledge and lay. 
And, for brief space, of all the crowd, 
As he was loudest of the loud, 

Seem gayest of the gay. 
ni. 
Yet nought amiss the bridal throng 
Mark'd in brief mirth, or musing long; 
The vacant brow, the unlistening ear, 
They gave to thoughts of raptures Bear, 
And his fierce starts of sudden glee 
Seem'd bursts of bridegroom's ecstasy. 
Nor thus alone misjudged the crowd, 
Since lofty Lorn, suspicious, proud. 
And jealous of his honor'd line, 
And that keen knight, De Argentine,* 
(From England sent on errand high, 
The western league more firm to tie,) 
Both deem'd in Ronald's mood to find 
A lover's transport-troubled mind. 
But one sad heart, one tearful eye. 
Pierced deeper through the mystery, 
And watch'd, with agony and fear, 
Her wayward bridegroom's varied cheer. 

IV. 

She watch'd — yet fear'd to meet his glance, 
And he shunn'd hers ; — till when by chance 
They met, the point of foeman's lance 

Had given a milder pang ! 
Beneath the intolerable smart 
He writhed — then sternly mann'd his 

heart 
To play his hard but destined part, 

And from the table sprang. 
" Fill me the mighty cup ! " he said, 
" Erst own'd by royal Somerled : 9 
Fill it, till on the studded brim 
In burning gold the bubbles swim, 
And every gem of varied shine 
Glow doubly briglit in rosy wine ! 

To you, brave lo>-d, and brother mine, 
Of Lorn, this pledge I drink — 






^f4t£^ 



THE LORD OF TI/E ISLES. 



265 



The union of Our House with thine, 
By this fair bridal-link 1 " — 



'* Let it pass round 1 '' quoth he of Lorn, 
" And in good time that winded horn 

Must of the Abbot tell; 
The laggard monk is come at last." 
Lord Ronald heard the bugle-blast, 
And on the floor at random cast, 

The untasted goblet fell. 
But when the warder in his ear 
Tells other news, his blither cheer 

Ruturns like sun of May, 
When through a thunder-cloud it beams !- 
Lord of two hundred isles, he seems 

As glad of brief delay, 
As some poor criminal might feel, 
When, from the gibbet or the wheel, 

Respited for a day. 



" Brother of Lorn," with hurried voice 
He said, "and you, fair lords, rejoice ! 

Here, to augment our glee, 
Come wandering knights from travel far, 
Well proved, they say, in strife of war. 

And tempest on the sea. — 
Ho ! give them at your board such place 
As best their presences may grace. 

And bid them welcome free ! 
With solemn step, and silver wand. 
The Seneschal the presence scann'd 
Of these strange guests ; and well he knew 
How to assign their rank its due ; 

For though the costly furs 
That erst had deck'd their caps were torn, 
And their gay robes were over-worn. 

And soil'd their gilded spurs. 
Yet such a high commanding grace 
Was in their mien and in their face, 
As suited best the princely dais,* 

And royal canopy ; 
And there he marsliall'd them their place, 

First of that company. 

VII. 

Then lords and ladies spake aside, 
And angry looks the error chide, 
That gave to guests unnamed, unknown, 
A place so near their prince's throne ; 

But Owen Erraught said, 
" For forty years a seneschal, 
To marshal guests in bower and hall 

Has been my honor'd trade. 

* Dais — the great hall-tnble — elevated a step 
or two above the rest of the room. 



Worship and birth to me are known. 
By look, by bearing, and by tone. 
Not by furr'd robe or broider'd zone ; 

And 'gainst an oaken bough 
I'll gage my silver wand of state, 
That these three strangers oft have sate 

In higher place than now." — 



" I, too," the aged Ferrand said, 
" Am qualified by minstrel trade 

Of rank and place to tell ; — 
Mark'd ye the younger stranger's eye, 
My mates, how quick, how keen, how high, 

How fierce its flashes fell, 
Glancing among the noble rout 
As if to seek the noblest out, 
Because the owner might not brook 
On any save his peers to look ? 

And yet it moves me more, 
That steady, calm, majestic brow, 
With which the elder chief even nov? 

Scann'd the gay presence o'er, 
Like being of superior kind. 
In whose high-toned impartial mind 
Degrees of mortal rank and state 
Seem objects of indifferent weight. 

The lady too — though closely tied 
The mantle veil both face and eye, 

Her motions' grace it could not hide, 
Nor could her form's fair symmetry, 

IX. 

Suspicious doubt and lordly scorn 
Lour'd on the haughty front of Lorn. 
From underneath his brows of pride. 
The stranger guests he sternly eyed, 
And whisper'd closely what the ear 
Of Argentine alone might hear ; 

Then question'd, high and brief, 
If, in their voyage, aught they knew 
Of the rebellious Scottish crew, 
Who to Rath-Erin's shelter cbew. 

With Carrick's outlaw'd Chief! 'o 
And if, their winter's exile o'er, 
They harbor'd still by Ulster's shore, 
Or launch'd their galleys on the main, 
To vex their native land again .? 

X. 
That yoimger stranger, fierce and high, 
At once confronts the Chieftain's eye 

With look of equal Scorn ; — 
" Of rebels have we nought to show ; 
But if of Royal Bruce thou'dst know, 

I warn thee he has sworn. 
Ere thrice three days shall come and go, 
His banner Scottish winds shall blow, 





266 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Despite each mean or mighty foe, 
From England's every bill and bow, 

To Allaster of Lorn." 
Kindled the mountain Chieftain's ire, 
But Ronald quencn'd the rising fire ; 
" Brother, it better suits the time 
To chase the night with Ferrand's rhyme, 
Than wake, 'midst mirth and wine, the jars 
That flow froni these unhappy wars."— 
'• Content," said Lorn ; and spoke apart 
With Ferrand, master of his art, 

Then whisper'd Argentine, — 
" The lay I named will carry smart 
To these bold strangers' haughty heart, 

If right this guess of mine." 
He ceased, and it was silence all, 
Until the minstrel waked the hall. 



THE BROOCH OF LORN." 

"Whence the brooch of burnmg gold, 
That clasps the Chieftain's mantle-fold, 
Wrought and chased with rare device, 
Studded fair with gems of price, 
On the varied tartans beaming, 
As, through night's pale rainbow gleaming, 
Fainter now, now seen afar. 
Fitful shines the northern star .'' 

" Gem! ne'er wrought on Highland mountam. 
Did the fairy of the fountain, 
Or the mermaid of the wave, 
Frame thee in some coral cave.? 
Did, in Iceland's darksome mine. 
Dwarf's swart hands thy metal twine ? 
Or, mortal-moulded, comest thou here. 
From England's love, or France's fear ? 

XII. 
SONG CONTINUED. 

" No ! — thy splendors nothing tell 
Foreign art or faery spell. 
Moulded thou for monarch's use, 
By the overweening Bruce, 
When the royal robe he tied 
O'er a heart of wrath and pride ; 
Thence in triumph wert thou torn, 
By the victor hand of Lorn ! 

" When thfi gem was won and lost, 
Widely was the war-cry toss'd ! 
Rung aloud Bendourish fell, 
Answer'd Douchart's sounding dell. 
Fled the deer from wild Teyndrum, 
When the homicide, o'ercome, 
Hardly 'scaped, with scathe and sr^" -^ 
Left the pledge witli conquerin •; I. . 



SONG CONCLUDED. 

" Vain was then the Douglas' brand, 
Vain the Campbell's vaunted hand, 
Vain Kirkpatrick's bloody dirk, 
Making sure of murders work : '- 
Barendown fled fast away. 
Fled the fiery De la Haye," 
When this brooch, triumphant borne, 
Beam'd upon the breast of Lorn. 

" Farthest fled its former Lord, 
Left his men to brand and cord, 
Bloody brand of Highland steel, 
English gibbet, axe, and wheel. 
Let him fly from coast to coast, 
Dogg'd by Comyn's vengeful ghost, 
Wiiile his spoils, in triumph worn, 
Long shall grace victorious Lorn ! " 



As glares the tiger on his foes, 

Hemm'd in by hunters, spears, and bows, 

And, ere he bounds upon the ring. 

Selects the object of his spring, — 

Now on the Bard, now on his Lord, 

So Edward glared and grasp'd his sword — 

But stern his brother spoke, — " Be still. 

What ! art thou yet so wild of will, 

After high deeds and sufferings long, 

To chafe thee for a menial's song ? — 

Well hast thou framed, Old Man, thy strains 

To praise the hand that pays thy pains ! 

Yet something might thy song have told 

Of Lorn's three vassals, true and bold. 

Who rent their Lord from Bruce's hold, 

As underneath his knee he lay, , 

And died to save him in the fray. 

I've heard the Bruce's cloak and clasp 

Was clench'd within their dying grasp, 

What time a hundred foemen more 

Rush'd in, and back the victor bore. 

Long after Lorn had left the strife. 

Full glad to 'scape with limb and life. — 

Enough of this — And, Minstrel, hold, 

As minstrel hire, this chain of gold. 

For future lays a fair excuse. 

To speak more nobly of the Bruce." 

XV. 

" Now, by Columba's shrine, I swear, 
And every saint that's buried there, 
'Tis he himself ! " Lorn sternly cries, 
" And for my kinsman's death he dies." 
As loudly Ronald calls, — " Forbear ! 
Not in my sight while brand 1 wear. 



^ 





THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



267 



O'ermatched by odds, shall warrior tall, 

Or blood of stranger stain my hall 1 

This ancient fortress of my race 

Shall be misfortune's resting-place. 

Shelter and shield of the distress'd, 

No slaughter • house for shipwreck'd 

guest.''— 
" Talk not to me," fierce Lorn replied, 
'■ Of odds or match ! — when Corny n died, 
Three daggers clash'd within his side ! 
Talk not to me of sheltering hall, 
The Church of God saw Comyn fall 1 
On God's own altar streamed his blood. 
While o'er my prostrate kinsman stood 
The ruthless murderer — e'en as now — 
With armed hand and scornful brow ! — 
Up, all who love me ! blow on blow ! 
And lay the outlaw'd felons low ! " 

XVI. 

Then up sprang many a mainland Lord, 
Obedient to their Chieftain's word. 
Barcaldme's arm is high in air. 
And Kinloch-Alline's blade is bare, 
Black IVIurthok's dirk has left its sheath. 
And clench'd is Dermid's hand of death. 
Their mutter'd threats of vengeance swell 
Into a wild and warlike yell ; 
Onward they press with weapons high, 
The affrighted females shriek and fly, 
And, Scotland, then thy brightest ray 
Had darken'd ere its noon of day, — 
But every chief of birth and fame, 
That from the Isles of Ocean came, 
At Ronald's side that hour withstood 
Fierce Lorn's relentless thirst for blood. 

XVII. 

Brave Torquil from Dunvegan high, 

Lord of the misty hills of Skye, 

Mac-Niel, wild Bara's ancient thane, 

Duart, of bold Clan-Gillian's strain, 

Fergus, of Canna's castled bay, 

Mac-Duffith, Lord of Colonsay, 

Soon as they saw the broadswords glance, 

With ready weapons rose at once. 

More prompt, that many an ancient feud. 

Full oft suppress'd, full oft renew'd, 

Glow'd 'twixt the chieftains of Argyle, 

And many a lord of ocean's isle. 

Wild was the scene — each sword was bare. 

Back stream' d each chieftain's shaggy hair. 

In gloomy opposition set, 

Eyes, hands, and brandish'd weapons met ; 

Blue gleaming o'er the social board, 

Flasli'd to the torches many a sword ; 

And soon those bridal lights may shine 

On purple blood for rosy wine. 



While thus for blows and death prepared, 
Each heart was up, each weapon bared. 
Each foot advanced, — a surly pause 
Still reverenced hospitable laws. 
All menaced violence, but alike 
Reluctant each the first to strike, 
(For aye accursed in minstrel line 
Is he who brawls 'mid song and wine,) 
And, match'd in numbers and in might, 
Doubtful and desperate seem'd the fight 
Thus threat and murmur died away. 
Till on the crowded hall there lay 
Such silence, as the deadly still, 
Ere bursts the thunder on the hill. 
With blade advanced, each chieftain bold 
Show'd like the Sworder's form of old, 
As wanting still the torch of life, 
To wake the marble into strife. 



That awful pause the stranger maid, 

And Edith, seized to pray for aid. 

As to De Argentine she clung, 

Away her veil the stranger flung, 

And, lovely 'mid her wild despair. 

Fast stream'd her eyes, wide flow'd her hair 

" O thou, of knighthood once the flower, 

Sure refuge in distressful hour, 

Thou, who in Judah well hast fought 

For our dear faith, and oft hast sought 

Renown in knightly exercise. 

When this poor hand has dealt the prize. 

Say, can thy soul of honor brook 

On the unequal strife to look. 

When, butcher'd thus in peaceful hall. 

Those once thy friends, my brethren, fall 1 " 

To Argentine she turn'd her word. 

But her eye sought the Island Lord. 

A flush like evening's setting flame 

Glow'd on his cheek ; his hardy frame, 

As with a brief convulsion, shook : 

With hurried voice and eager look, — 

" Fear not," he said, '• my Isabel ! 

What said I— Edith !— all is well — 

Nay, fear not — I will well provide 

The safety of my lovely bride — 

IMy bride ? " but there the accents clung 

In tremor to his faltering tongue. 



Now rose De Argentine, to claim 
The prisoners in his sovereign's name 
To England's crown, who, vassals sworn, 
'Gainst their liege lord had weapon borne- 
(Such speech, I ween, was but to hide 
His care their safety to provide ; 





M. 




268 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS, 



For knight more true in thought and deed 
Than Argentine ne'er spurr'd ,1 steed) — 
And Ronald, who his meaning guess'd, 
Seem'd half to sanction the request. 
This purpose fiery Torquil broke : — 
" Somewhat we've heard of England's 

yoke," 
He said, " and, in our islands. Fame 
Hath whisper'd of a lawful claim, 
That calls the Bruce fair Scotland's Lord, 
Though dispossess'd by foreign sword. 
This craves reflection — but though right 
And just the charge of England's Knight, 
Let England's crown her rebels seize 
Where she has power ; — in towers like these, 
'Midst Scottish Chieftains summon'd here 
To bridal mirth and bridal cheer, 
Be sure with no consent of mine, 
Shall either Lorn or Argentine 
With chains or violence, in our sight, 
Oppress a brave and banish'd Knight." 



Then waked the wild debate again, 
With brawling threat and clamor vain. 
Vassals and menials, thronging in. 
Lent their brute rage to swell the din ; 
When, far and wide, a bugle-clang 
From the dark ocean upward rang. 

" The Abbot comes ! " they cry at once, 

" The holy man, whose favor'd glance 
Hath samted visions known ; 

Angels have met him on the way, 

Beside the blessed martyrs' bay, 
And by Columba's stone. 

His monks have heard their hvmnings 
high 

Sound from the summit of Dun-Y, 

To cheer his penance lone, 

When at each cross, on girth and wold, 

(Their number thrice a hundred-fold,) 

His prayer he made, his beads he told, 

With Aves many a one — 
He comes our feuds to reconcile, 
A sainted man from sainted isle ; 
We will his holy doom abide. 
The Abbot shall our strife decide." 

XXII. 
Scarcely this fair accord was o'er. 
When through the wide revolving door 

The black-stoled brethren wind ; 
Twelve sandall'd monks, who relics bore 
With many a torch-bearer before, 

And many a cross behind, 
Then sunk each fierce uplifted hand. 
And dagger bright and flashing brand 




Dropp'd swiftly at the sight ; 
They vanish' d from the Churchman's eye, 
.\s shooting stars, that glance and die. 

Dart from the vault of night. 

XXIII. 

The Abbot on the threshold stood, 
And in his hand the holy rood ; 
Back on his shoulders flow'd his hood. 

The torch's glaring ray 
Show'd, in Us red and flashing light. 
His wither'd cheek and amice white, 
His blue eye glistening cold and bright, 

His tresses scant and gray. 
" Fair Lords," he said, " Our Lady's love, 
And peace be with you from above. 

And Benedicite ! 
— But what means this ? no peace is here \~ 
Do dirks unsheathed suit bridal cheer? 

Or are these naked brands 
A seemly show for Churchman's sight, 
When he comes summon'd to unite 

Betrothed hearts and hands ? " 

XXIV. 

Then, cloaking hate with fiery zeal. 
Proud Loin first answer'd the appeal ; — 

" Thou comest, O holy Man, 
True sons of blessed Church to greet, 
But little deeming here to meet 

A wretch, beneath the ban 
Of Pope and Church, for murder done 
Even on the sacred altar-stone ! — 
Well niayest thou wonder we should know 
Such miscreant here, nor lay him low, 
Or dream of greeting, peace, or truce. 
With excommunicated Bruce ! 
Yet well I grant, to end debate, 
Thy sainted voice decide his fate." 

XXV. 

Then Ronald pled the stranger's cause, 

And knighthood's oath and honor's laws ^ 

And Isabel, on bended knee. 

Brought pray'rs and tears to back her plea ; 

And Edith lent her generous aid, 

And wept, and Lorn for mercy pray'd. 

" Hence," he exclaim'd, •' degenerate maid ! 

Was't not enough to Ronald's bower 

I brought thee, like a paramour,''* 

Or bond-maid at her master's gate, 

His careless cold approach to wait ? — 

But the bold Lord of Cumberland, 

The gallant Clifford, seeks thy hand ; 

His it shall be — Nay, no reply ! 

Hence 1 till those rebel eyes be dry." 

With grief the Abbot heard and saw, 

Yet nought relax'd his brow of awe. 





THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



269 



Then Argentine, in England's name. 
So highly urged his sovereign's claim, 
He waked a spark, that long suppress'd, 
Had smoulder'd in Lord Ronald's breast ; 
And now, as from the flint the fire, 
Plash'd forth at once his generous ire. 
" Enough of noble blood," he said, 
" By English Edward had been shed, 
Since matchless Wallace first had been 
In mock'ry crown'd with wreaths of green, '^ 
And done to death by felon hand, 
For guarding well his father's land. 
Where's Nigel Bruce ? and De la Haye, 
And valiant Seton — where are they ? 
Where Somerville, the kind and free ? 
And Eraser, flower of chivalry ? 
Have they not been on gibbet bound. 
Their quarters flung to hawk and hound, 
And hold we here a cold debate, 
To yield more victims to their fate ? 
What ! can the EngHsh Leopard's mood 
Never be gorged with northern blood ? 
Was not the life of Athole shed, 
To soothe the tyrant's sicken'd laed ? '^ 
And must his v/ord, till dying day. 
Be nought but quarter, hang, and slay ! — 
Thou frown'st, De Argentine, — My gage 
Is prompt to prove the strife I wage.'" — 



" Nor deem," said stout Dunvegan's knight, 
" That thou shalt brave aVjne the fight ! 
By saints of isle and mainland both. 
By Woden wild, (my grandsire's oath,) * 
Let Rome and England do their worst, 
Howe'er attainted or accursed. 
If Bruce shall e'er find friends again. 
Once more to brave a battle-plain, 
If Douglas couch again his lance. 
Or Randolph dare another chance, 
Old Torquil will not be to lack 
With twice a thousand at his back. — 
Nay, chafe not at my bearing bold. 
Good Abbot! for thou know'st of old, 
Torquil's rude thought and stubborn will 
Smack of the wild Norwegian still : 
Nor will I barter Freedom's cause 
For England's wealth, or Rome's ap- 
plause." 



* The Macleods were of Scandinavian de- 
scent — tlie ancient worshippers of Thor and 
Woden. 



The Abbot seem'd with eye severe 

The hardy Chieftain's speech to hear ; 

Then on King Robert turn'd the Monk, 

But twice his courage came and sunk, 

Confronted with the hero's look ; 

Twice fell his eye, his accents shook ; 

At length, resolved ni tone and brow, 

Sternly he question'd hmi — " And thou. 

Unhappy ! what hast thou to plead, 

Why I denounce not on thy deed 

That awful doom which canons tell 

Shuts paradise, and opens hell ? 

Anathema of power so dread. 

It blends the living with the dead. 

Bids each good angel soar away. 

And every ill one claim his prey ; 

Expels thee from the Church's care. 

And deafens Heaven against thy prayer; 

Arms every hand against thy life, 

Bans all who aid thee in the strife. 

Nay, each whose succor, cold and scant, 

With meanest alms relieves thy want ; 

Haunts thee while living, — and, when dead, 

Dwells on thy yet devoted head. 

Rends Honor's scutcheon from thy hearse. 

Stills o'er thy bier the holy verse. 

And spurns thy corpse from hallow'd 

ground. 
Flung like vile carrion to the hound ; 
Such is the dire and desperate doom 
For sacrilege, decreed by Rome ; 
And such the well-deserved meed 
Of thine unhallow'd, ruthless deed." 



" Abbot! " the Bruce replied, " thy charge 

It boots not to dispute at large. 

This much, howe'er, I bid thee know, 

No selfish vengeance dealt the blow, 

For Comyn died his country's foe. 

Nor blame I friends whose ill-timed speed 

Fulfill'd my soon-repented deed. 

Nor censure those from whose stern tongue 

The dire anathema has rung. 

I only blame mine own wild ire. 

By Scotland's wrongs incensed to fire. 

Heaven knows my purpose to atone, 

Far as I may, the evil done. 

And hears a penitent's appeal 

From papal curse and prelate's zeal. 

My first and dearest task achieved, 

Fair Scotland from her thrall relieved, 

Shall many a priest in cope and stole 

Say requiem for Red Comyn's soul. 










^ «H ■' . 


. ' V^W\^ 




^AA . 


: ^ 




V 


ij 








270 SCOTT'S POETIC AI. WORKS. 


- 




While I the blessed cross advance, 


Avenger of thy country's shame, 




And expiate this unliappy chance 


Restorer of her injured fame, 1 1 






In Palestine, with sword and lance. '^ 


Bless'd in thy sceptre and thy sword, J ' ' 




*■ 


But, while content the church should know 


De Bruce, fair Scotland's rightful Lord, 1 






My conscience owns the debt I owe 


Bless'd in thy deeds and in thy fame. 






Unto De Argentine and Lorn 


What lengthen'd honors wait thy name 1 






The name of traitor 1 return, 


In distant ages, sire to son 






Bid them defiance stern and high. 


Shall tell thy tale of freedom won, 






And give tnem in their throats the lie ! 


And teach his infants, in the use 






These brief words spoke, I speak no more. 


Of earliest speech, to falter Bruce. 






Do what thou wilt ; my shrift is o'er." 


Go, then, triumphant! sweep along 
Thy course, the theme of many a song ! 






XXX. 


The Power, whose dictates swell my breast, 






Like man by prodigy amazed. 


Hath bless'd thee, and thou shalt be 






Upon the King the Abbot gazed ; 


bless'd ! — 






Then o'er his pallid features glance 


Enough — my short-lived strength decays. 






Convulsions of ecstatic trance. 


And sinks the momentary blaze. — 






His breathing came more thick and fast. 


Heaven hath our destined purpose broke, 






And from his pale blue eyes were cast 


Not here must nuptial vow be spoke ; 






Strange rays of wild and wandering light ; 


Brethren, our errand here is o'er. 






Uprise his locks of silver white. 


Our task discharged.— Unmoor, unmoor ! " 






Flush'd is his brow, through every vein 


His priests received the exhausted Monk, 






In azure tide the currents strain. 


As breathless in their arms he sunk, 






And undistinguish'd accents broke 


Punctual his orders to obey. 






The awful silence ere lie spoke. 


The train refused all longer stay, 
Embark'd, raised sail, and bore away. 






XXXI. 

" De Bruce! I rose with purpose dread 












To speak my curse upon thy head,'^ 


CANTO THIRD. 






And give thee as an outcast o'er 








To him who burns to shed thy gore ; 


I. 






But, like the Midianite of old, 


Hast thou not mark'd, when o'er thy 






Who stood on Zophim, heaven-controll'd, 


startled head 






I feel within mine aged breast 


Sudden and deep the thunder-peal his 






A power that will not be repress'd. 


roll'd. 






It prompts my Vv^ice. it swells my veins, 


How, when its echoes fell, a silence 






It burns, it maddens, it constrains ! — 


dead 






De Bruce, thy sacrilegious blow 


Sunk on the the wood, the meadow, and 






Hath at God"s altar slain thy foe : 


the wold ? 






O'ermaster'd yet by high behest. 


The rye-grass shakes not on the sod- 






I bless thee, and thou shalt be bless'd ! " 


biiilt fold. 






He spoke, and o'er the astonish'd throng 


The rustling aspen's leaves are mute 






Was silence, awful, deep, and long. 


and still, 








The wall-fiower waves not on the ruin'd 






XXXII. 


hold. 






Again that light has fired his eye, 


Till, murmuring distant first, then near 






Again his form swells bold and high, 


and shrill, 






The broken voice of age is gone, 


The savage whirlwind wakes, and sweeps 






'Tis vigorous manhood's lofty tone : 


the groaning hill. 






" Thrice vanquish'd on the battle-plain. 








Thy followers slaughter'd, fled, or ta'en, 


II. 






A hunted wanderer on the wild, 


Artornish ! such a silence sunk • 






;, „ On foreign shores a man exiled, '9 


Upon thy halls, when that gray Monk ci 


ri 




Disown'd, deserted, and distress'd, 


His prophet speech had spoke ; 






I bless thee, and thou shalt bo bless'd ! 


And his obedient brethren's sail 






Rless'd in the hall and in the field, 


Was stretch'd to meet the southern gale 






Under the mantle as the shield. 


Before a whisper woke. 






J U 


C_| -. 


f 




1 


T 


V. — 




i 


1— s 


— ^ 






1 




THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



Then murmuring sounds of doubt and fear, 
Close pour'd m many an anxious ear, 

The solemn stillness broke ; 
And still they gazed with eager guess, 
Where, in an oriel's deep recess. 
The Isand Prince seem'd bent to press 
What Lorn, by his impatient cheer, 
And gesture fierce, scarce deign'd to hear. 



Starting at length, with frowning look. 
His hand he clench'd, his head he shook, 

And sternly flung apart ; — 
* And deem'st thou me so mean of mood, 
As to forget tlie mortal feud. 
And clasp the hand with blood imbrued 

From my dear Kinsman's heart ? 
Is this thy rede ? — a due return 
For ancient league and friendship sworn 1 
But well our mountain proverb shows 
The faith of Islesmen ebbs and flows. 
Be it even so — believe, ere long. 
He that now bears shall wreak the wrong.- 
Call Edith— call the Maid of Lorn 1 
My sister, slaves ! — for further scorn. 
Be sure nor she nor I will sta}'. — 
Away, De Argentine, away ! — 
We nor ally nor brother know. 
In Bruce's friend, or England's foe '' 



But who the Chieftain's rage can tell, 
When, sought from lowest dungeon cell 
To highest tower the castle round. 
No Lady Edith was there found ! 
He shouted, " Falsehood ! — treachery ! — 
Revenge and blood ! — a lordly meed 
To him that wiU avenge the deed ! 
A Baron's lands ! " — His frantic mood 
Was scarcely by the news withstood, 
That Morag shared his sister's flight, 
And that, in hurry of the night, 
'Scaped noteless, and without remark, 
Two strangers sought the Abbot's bark. — 
" Man every galley ! — fiy — pursue ! 
The priest his treachery shall rue ! 
Ay, and the time shall quickly come. 
When we shall hear the thanks thaV Rome 
Will pay his feigned prophecy ! " 
Such was fierce Lorn's indignant cry ; 
And Cormac Doil in haste obcy'd, 
Hoisted his sail, his anchor weigh'd, 
(For, glad of each pretext for spoil, 
A pirate sworn was Cormac Doil.) 
But others, lingering, spoke apart, — 
" The Maid has given her maiden heart 
To Ronald of the Isles, 




And, fearful lest her brother's word 
Bestow her on that Englisli Lord, 

She seeks lona's piles, 
/fnd wisely deems it best to dwell 
A votaress in the holy cell, 
Until these feuds so fierce and fell 

The Abbot jeconciles.'' 

V. 

As, impotent of ire, the hall 
Echo'd to Lorn's impatient call, 
" My horse, my mantle, and my train ! 
Let none who honors Lorn remain ! " — 
Courteous, but stern, a bold request 
To Bruce De Argentine express'd. 
" Lord Earl," he said, — " I cannot chuse 
But yield such title to the Bruce, 
Though name and earldom both are gone^ 
Since he braced rebel's armor on — 
But, Earl or Serf — rude phrase was thine 
Of late, and launch'd at Argentine; 
Such as compels me to demand 
Redress of honor at thy hand. 
We need not to each other tell. 
That both can wield their weapons well ; 
Then do me but the soldier grace. 
This glove upon thy helm to place 

Where we may meet in fight ; 
And I will say, as still I've said. 
Though by ambition far misled. 
Thou art a noble knight.'' — 

VI. 

" And I,'' the princely Bruce replied, 
" Might term it stain on- knighthood's pride 
That the bright sword of Argentine 
Should m a tyrant's quarrel shine ; 

But, for your brave request. 
Be sure the honor'd pledge you gave 
In every battle-field shall wave 

Upon my helmet-crest ; 
Believe, that if my hasty tongue 
Hath done thine honor causeless wrong, 

It shall be v/ell redress'd. 
Not dearer to my soul was glove, 
Bestow'd in youth by lady's love. 

Than this which thou hast given ! 
Thus, then, my noble foe I greet ; 
Health and high fortune till we meet, 

And then — what pleases Heaven.'' 

VII. 

Thus parted they — for now, with sound 
Like waves roll'd back from rocky ground. 

The friends of Lorn retire ; 
Each mainland chieftain, with his train, 
Draws to his mountain towers again. 
Pondering how mortal schemes prove vaun. 

And mortal hopes expire. 







SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



But through the castle double o-uard, 
By Ronald's charge, kept wakeful ward, 
Wicket and gate were trebly barr'd, 

By beam and bolt and chain ; 
Then of the guests, in courteous sort, 
He pray'd excuse for mirth broke short, 
And bade them in Artornish fort 

In confidence reniiin. 
Now torch and menia' tendance led 
Chieftain and knight to bower and bed, 
And beads were told, and Aves said, 

And soon they sunk away 
Into such sleep, as wont to shed 
Oblivion on the wearv head. 



After a toilsome day. 



But soon uproused, the Monarch cried 
To Edward slumbering by his side, 

" Awake, or sleep for aye ! 
Even now there jarr'd a secret door — 
A taper-light gleams on the floor — 

Up, Edward, up, I say I 
Some one glides in like midnight ghost — 
Nay, strike not ! 'tis our noble Host.'' 
Advancing then his taper's flame, 
Ronald stept forth, and with him came 

Dunvegan's chief — each bent the knee 

To Bruce in sign of fealty, 
And proffer'd him his sword, 

And hail'd him in a monarch's style, 

As king of mainland and of isle, 
And Scotland's rightful lord. 
'And O," said Roland, " Own'd of 

Heaven ! 
Say, is my erring youth forgiven, 
By falsehood's arts from duty driven. 

Who rebel falchion drew, 
Yet ever to thy deeds of fame. 
Even while I strove against thy claim. 

Paid homage just and true ? " — 
" Alas ! dear youth, the unhappy time," 
Answer'd the Bruce, " must bear the 
crime. 

Since, guiltier far than you. 
Even I '' — he paused ; for Falkirk's woes 
Upon Ills conscious soul arose. '° 
The Chieftain to his breast he press'd. 
And in a sigh conceal'd the rest. 



They profler'd aid, by arms and might, 
To repossess him in his right ; 
But well their counsels must be weigh'd, 
Ere banners raised and musters made, 
For English hire and Lorn's intrigues 
Bound many chiefs in southern leagues. 



In answer, Bruce his purpose bold 
To his new vassals frankly tolcL 
" The winter worn in exile o'er, 
I long'd for Carrick's kindred shore. 
I thought upon my native Ayr, 
And long'd to see flie burly fare 
That Clifford makes, vyhose lordly call 
Now echoes through my lather's hall. 
But first my course to Arran led, 
Where valiant Lennox gathers head. 
And on the sea, by tempest toss'd. 
Our barks dispersed, our purpose cross'd, 
Mine own, a hostile sail to shun. 
Far from her destined course had run, 
When that wise will, which masters ours, 
Compell'd us to your friendly towers." 



Then Torquil spoke : — " The tinae craves 

speed ! 
We must not linger in our deed, 
But instant pray our Sovereign Liege, 
To shun the perils of a siege. 
The vengeful Lorn, with all his powers, 
Lies but too near Artornish towers, 
And England's light-arm'd vessels ride, 
Not distant far, the waves of Clyde, 
Prompt at these tidings to unmoor. 
And sweep each strait, and guard each 

shore. 
Then, till this fresh alarm pass by. 
Secret and safe my Liege must lie 
In the far bounds of friendly" Skye, 
Torquil thy pilot and thy guide." — 
" Not so, brave Chieftain," Ronald cried ; 
" Myself will on my Sovereign wait. 
And raise in arms the men of Sleate, 
Whilst thou, renown'd where chiefs debace, 
Shalt sway their souls by counsel sage, 
And awe them by thy locks of age." 
— " And if my words in weight shall fail, 
This ponderous sword shall turn the scale.' 



— "The scheme," said Bruce, "contents 

me well ; 
Meantime, 'twere best that Isabel, 
For safety, with my bark and crew. 
Again to friendly Erin drew. 
There Edward, too, shall with her wend, 
In need to cheer her and defend. 
And muster up each scatter'd friend.'' — 
Here seem'd it as Lord Roland's ear 
Would other counsel gladlier hear ; 
But, all achieved as soon as plann'd. 
Both barks, in secret arm'd and mann'd, 
From out the haven 'oore ; 






THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



273 



On different voyage fortli they ply, 
This for the coast of winged Skye, 
And that for Erin's shore. 



With Bruce and Roland bides the tale. — 
To favoring winds they gave the sail, 
Till Mull's dark headlands scarce they knew, 
And Ardnamurchan's hills were blue. 
But then the squalls blew close and hard, 
And, fain to strike the galley's yard, 

And take them to the oar, 
With these rude seas in weary plight, 
Tliey strove the livelong day and night, 
Nor till the dawning had a sight 

Of Skye's romantic shore. 
Where Coolin stoops him to the west, 
They saw upon his shiver'd crest 

The sun's arising gleam ; 
But such the labor and delay, 
Ere they were moor'd in Scavigh bay, 
(For calmer heaven compell'd to stay,) 

He shot a western beam. 
Then Ronald said, " If true mine eye, 
These are the savage wilds that lie 
North of Strathnardill and Dunskye ; -' 

No human foot comes here, 
And, since these adverse breezes blow, 
If my good Liege love hunter's bow. 
What hinders that on land we go, 

And strike a mountain-deer.'' 
Allan, my page, shall with us wend ; 
A bow full deftly can he bend, 
And, if we meet a herd, may send 

A shaft shall mend our cheer." 
Then each took bow and bolts in hand. 
Their row-boat launch'd and leapt to land. 

And left their skiff and train, 
Where a wild stream, with headlong shock. 
Came brawling down its bed of rock. 

To mingle with the main. 



A while their route they silent made. 

As men who stalk for mountain-deer, 
Till the good Bruce to Ronald said, 

" St. Mary 1 what a scene is here ! — 
I've traversed many a mountain-strand, 

Abroad and in my native land. 
And it has been my lot to tread 
Where safety more than pleasure led ; 
Thus, many a waste I've wander'd o'er, 
Clombe many a crag, cross'd many » moor. 

But, by my halidome, 
A scene so rude, so wild as this, 
Yet so sublime in barrenness. 



Ne'er did my wandering footsteps press, 
Where'er I happ'd to roam." 



No marvel thus the Monarch spake ; 

For rarely human eye has known 
A scene so stern as that dread lake. 

With its dark ledge of barren stone. 
Seems that primeval earthquake's sway 
Hath rent a strange and shatter'd way 

Through the rude bosom of the Iiill, 
And that each naked precipice. 
Sable ravine, and dark abyss 

Tells of the outrage still. 
The wildest glen, but this, can show 
Some touch of Nature's genial glow ; 
On high Benmore green mosses grow, 
And heath-bells bud in deep Glencroe, 

And copse on Cruchan-Ben ; 
But here, — above, around, below. 

On mountain or in glen, 
Nor tree, nor shrub, nor plant, nor flower, 
Nor aught of vegetative power. 

The weary eye may ken. 
For all is rocks at random thrown, 
Black waves, bare crags, and banks of stone; 

As if were here denied 
The summer sun, the spring's sweet dew, 
That clothe with many a varied hue 

The bleakest mountain-side. 



And wilder, forward as they wound. 
Were the proud cliffs and lake profound. 
Huge terraces of granite black 
Afforded rude and cumber'd track ; 

For from the mountain hoar 
Hurl'd headlong in some night of fear, 
W^hen yell'd the wolf and fled the deer. 

Loose crags had toppled o'er ; 
And some, chance-poised and balanced, lay. 
So that a stripling arm might sway 

A mass no host could raise, 
In Nature's -rage at random thrown, 
Yet trembling like the Druid's stone 

On its precarious base. 
The evening mists, with ceaseless change, 
Now clothed the mountains' lofty range. 

Now left their foreheads bare, 
And round the skirts their mantle furl'd, 
Or on the sable waters curl'd, 
Or on the eddying breezes whirl d, 

Dispersed in middle air. ^ 

And oft, condensed, at once they lower. 
When, brief and fierce, the mountain shower 







274 



SCO TT'S FOE TIC A L WORKS. 



Pours like a torrent down, 
And when return the sun's glad beams, 
Whiten'd with foam a thousand streams 

Leap from the mountain's crown. 

XVI. 

" This lake," said Bruce, " whose barriers 

drear 
Are precipices sharp and sheer, 
Yielding no track for goat or deer, 

Save the black shelves we tread, 
How term you its dark waves ? and how 
Yon northern mountain's pathless brow, 

And yonder peak of dread, 
That to the evening sun uplifts 
The grisly gulfs and slaty rifts, 

Wfiich seem its shiver'd head ? " — 
" Coriskin call the dark lake's name, 
Coolin the ridge, as bards proclaim, 
From old Cuchullin, chief of fame. 
But bards, familiar in our isles 
Rather with Nature's frowns than smiles. 
Full oft their careless humors please 
By sportive names from scenes like these. 
I would old Torquil were to show 
His maidens with their breasts of snow. 
Or that my noble Liege were nigh 
To hear his Nurse sing lullaby 1 
(The Maids — tall cliffs with breakers white. 
The Nurse— 7a torrent's roaring might,) 
Or that your eye could see the mood 
Of Corryvrekin's whirlpool rude, 
When dons the Hag her whiten'd hood — 
'Tis thus our islesmen's fancy frames. 
For scenes so stern, fantastic names." 

XVII. 

Answer'd the Bruce, " And musing mind 

Might here a graver moral find. 

These mighty cliffs, that heave on high 

Their naked brows to middle sky, 

Indifferent to the sun or snow. 

Where nought can fade, and nought can 

blow, 
May they not mark a Monarch's fate, — 
Raised high 'mid storms of strife and state, 
Beyond life's lowlier pleasures placed, 
His soul a rock, his heart a waste .'' 
O'er hope and love and fear aloft 
High rears his crowned head — But soft 1 
Look, underneath yon jutting crag 
Are hunters and a slaughter'd stag. 
Who may they be ? But late you said 
No steps these desert regions tread." — 

^ XVIII. 

" So said I — and believed in sooth," 
Ronald replied, " 1 spoke the truth. 



Yet now I spy, by yonder stone. 

Five men — they mark us, and come on j 

And by their badge on bonnet borne, 

I guess them of the land of Lorn, 

Foes to my Liege." — " So let it be ; 

I've faced worse odds than five to three— 

— But the poor page can little aid ; 

Then be our battle thus array'd, 

If our free passage they contest ; 

Cope thou with two, I'll match the rest." — 

" Not so, my Liege — for, by my life. 

This sword shall meet the treble strife ; 

My strength, my skill in arms, more small, 

And less the loss should Ronald fall, 

But islemen soon to soldiers grow, 

Allan has sword as well as bow^ 

And were my Monarch's order given, 

Two shafts should makft our number 

even." — 
" No 1 not to save my life ! " he said ; 
" Enough of blood rests on my head, 
Too rashly spill'd — we soon shall know, 
Whether they come as friend or foe." 

XIX. 

Nigh came the strangers, and more nigh ; — 
Still less they pleased the Monarch's eye. 
Men were they all of evil mien, 
Down-look' d, unwilling to be seen ; 
They moved with half-resolved pace. 
And bent on earth each gloomy face. 
The foremost two were fair array'd. 
With brogue and bonnet, trews and plaid. 
And bore the arms of mountaineers. 
Daggers and broadswords, bows and spear^ 
The three, that lagg'd small space behind, 
Seem'd serfs of more degraded kind ; 
Goat-skins or deer-hides o'er them cast, 
Made a rude fence against the blast ; 
Their arms and feet and heads were bare, 
Matted their beards, unshorn their hair ; 
Foi- arms, the caitiffs bore in hand, 
A club, an axe, a rusty brand. 



Onward, still mute, they kept the tracTc ;— 
" Tell who ye be, or else stand back," 
Said Bruce ; " Jn deserts when they meet, 
Men pass not as in peaceful street." 
Still, at his stern command, they stood, 
And proffer'd greeting brief and rude, 
But acted courtesy so ill. 
As seem'd of fear, and not of will. 
" Wanderers we are, as you may be ; 
Men hither driven by wind and sea, 
Who, if you list to taste our cheer, 
Will share with vou this fallow deer."— 







THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



275 



«Tf from the sea, where lies your bark ? — 
« Ten fathom deep in ocean dark ! 
Wreck'd yesternight : but we are men, 
Who httle sense of peril ken. 
The shades come down— the day is shut — 
Will you go with us to our hut ? " — 
^ Our vessel waits us in the bay ; 
Thanks for your proffer — have good- 
day."— 
" Was that your galley, then, which rode ^ 
Not far from shore when evening glow'd ? "— 
'' It was."—" Then spare your needless 

pain, 
There will she now be sought in vam. 
We saw her from the mountain-head, 
When, with St. George's blazon red, 
A southern vessel bore in sight, _ 
And yours raised sail, and took to flight — 

XXI. 

" Now, by the rood, unwelcome news ! " 
Thus with Lord Ronald communed Bruce ; 
" Nor rests there light enough to show 
If this their tale be true or no. 
The men seem bred of churlish kind, 
Yet mellow nuts have hardest rind ; 
We will go with them — food and fire 
And sheltering roof our wants require. 
Sure guard 'gainst treachery will we keep, 
And watch by turns our comrades' sleep. — 
Good fellows, thanks ; your guests we'll be. 
And well will pay the courtesy. 
Come, lead us where your lodging lies, — 

Nay, soft, we mix not companies. — 

Show us the path o'er crag and stone, 
And we will follow you ; — lead on." 

XXII. 

Thev reach'd the dreary cabin, made 
Of sails against a rock display'd, 

And there, on entering, found 
A slender boy, whose form and mien 
111 suited with such savage scene. 
In cap and cloak of velvet green, 

Low seated on the ground. 
His garb was such as minstrels wear, 
Dark was his hue, and dark his hair. 
His youthful cheek was marr'd by care, 

His eyes in sorrow drown'd. 
"Whence this poor boy?'' — As Ronald 

spoke. 
The voice his trance of anguish broke ; 
As if awaked from ghastly dream. 
He raised his head with start and scream, 

And wildly gazed around ; 
Then to the wall his face he turn'd, 
And his dark neck with blushes barn'd. 



XXIII. 

" Whose is the boy ? " again he said.— 
" By chance of war our captive made ; 
He may be yours, if you should hold 
That music has more charms than gold ; 
For, though from earliest childhood mute, 
The lad can deftly touch the lute, 
And on the rote and viol play, 
And well can drive the time away 
For those who love such glee ; 
For me, the favoring breeze, when loud 
It pipes upon the galley's shroud. 
Makes blither melody." — 
" Hath he, then, sense of spoken sound ? "— 

" Aye ; so his mother bade us know, 
A crone in our late shipwreck drown'd. 

And hence the silly stripling's woe. 
More of the youth I cannot say. 
Our captive hvX since yesterday; 
When wind and weather wax'd so grim, 
We little listed think of him.— 
But why waste time in idle words ? 
Sit to your cheer— unbelt your swords." 
Sudden the captive turn'd his head. 
And one quick glance to Ronald sped. 
It was a keen and warning look. 
And well the Chief the signal took. 

XXIV. 

" Kind host," he said, " our needs require 
A separate board and separate fire ; 
For know, that on a pilgrimage 
Wend I, my comrade, and this page. 
And, sworn to vigil and to fast. 
Long as this hallow'd task shall last, 
We never doff the plaid or sword. 
Or feast us at a stranger's board ; 
And never share one common sleep, 
But one must still his vigil keep. 
Thus, for our separate use, good friend. 
We'll hold this hut's remoter end." — 
" .A churlish vow," the eldest .said, 
" And hard, methinks, to be obey'd. 
How say you, if, to wreak the scorn 
That pays our kindness harsh return, ^ 
We should refuse to share our meal ? " 
" Then say we, that our swords are steel 1 
And our vow binds us not to fast. 
Where gold or force may buy repast."— 
Their host's dark brow grew keen and fell, 
His teeth are clench'd, his features swell; 
Yet sunk the felon's moody ire 
Before Lord Ronald's glance of fire. 
Nor could his craven courage brook 
The Monarch's calm and dauntless look. 
With laugh constrained,—" Let everv man 
Follow the fashion of liis clan 



^ 




1 





276 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Each to his separate quarters keep, 
And feed or fast, or wake or sleep." 

XXV. 
Their fire at separate distance burns, 
By turns they eat, keep guard by turns ; 
For evil seem'd that old man's eye, 
Dark and designing, fierce yet shy. 
Still he avoided forward look, 
But slow and circumspectly took 
A circling, never-ceasing glance. 
By doubt and cunning mark'd at once, 
Which shot a mischief-boding ray, 
From under eyebrows shagg'd and gray. 
The younger, too, who seem'd his son. 
Had that dark look the timid slum ; 
The half-clad serfs behind them sate. 
And scowl'd a glare 'twixt fear and hate — 
Till all, as darkness onward crept, 
Couch'd down, and seem'd to sleep or slept. 
Nor he, that boy, whose powerless tongue 
Must trust his eyes to wail his wrong, 
A longer watch of sorrow made. 
But stretch'd his limbs to slumber laid. 

XXVI. 

Not in his dangerous host confides 
The King, but wary watcli provides. 
Roland keeps ward till midniglit past. 
Then wakes the King, young Allan last ; 
Thus rank'd, to give the youthful page 
The rest required by tender age. 
What is Lord Ronald's wakeful thought, 
To chase the languor toil had brought ? — 
(For deem not that he deign'd to throw 
Much care upon such coward foe,) — 
He thinks of lovely Isabel, 
When at her foeman's feet she fell, 
Nor less when, placed in princely selle. 
She glanced on him with favoring eyes, 
At Woodstock when he won the prize, 
Nor, fair in joy, in sorrow fair. 
In pride of place as 'mid despair, 
Must she alone engross his care. 
His thoughts to his betrothed bride, 
To Edith, turn — O how decide, 
When here his love and heart are given. 
And there his faith stands plight to Heaven ! 
No drowsy vrard 'tis his to keep. 
For seldom lovers long for sleep. 
Till sung his midnight hymn the owl, 
Answer'd the dog-fox with his howl, 
Then waked the King — at his request, 
Lord Ronald stretch'd himself to rest. 

XXVII, 

What spell was good King Robert's, say. 
To drive the weary night away l 



His was the patriot's burning thought, 

Of Freedom's battle bravely fought, 

Of castles storm' d, of cities freed. 

Of deep design and daring deed, 

Of England's roses reft and torn. 

And Scotland's cross in triumph worn, 

Of rout and rally, war and truce, — ■ 

As heroes think, so thought the Bruce. 

No marvel, 'mid such musings high. 

Sleep shunn'd the Monarch's thoughtful 

eye. 
Now over Coolin's eastern head 
The grayish light begins to spread. 
The otter to his cavern drew, 
And clamor'd shrill the wakening mew ; 
Then watch'd the page — to needtul rest 
The King resign'd his anxious breast. 

xxviit. 
To Allan's eyes was harder task. 
The weary watch their safeties ask. 
He trimm'd the fire, and gave to shine 
With bickering light the splinter'd pine ; 
Then gazed awhile, where silent laid 
Their hosts were shrouded by the plaid. 
But little fear waked in his mind. 
For he was bred of martial kind, 
And, if to manhood he arrive. 
May match the boldest knight alive. 
Then thought he of his mother's tower, 
His little sisters' greenwood bower. 
How there the Easter-gambols pass, 
And of Dan Joseph's lengthen'd mass. 
But still before his weary eye 
In rays prolong'd the blazes die — 
Again he roused him — on the lake 
Look'd forth, where now the twilight 

flake 
Of pale cold dawn began to wake. 
On Coolin's cliffs the mist lay furl'd, 
The morning breeze the lake had curl'd. 
The short dark waves, heaved to the land, 
With ceaseless splash kiss'd cliff or sand ;-■ 
It was a slumbrous sound — he turn'd 
To tales at which his youth had burn'd. 
Of pilgrim's path by demon cross'd, 
Of sprightly elf or yelling ghost. 
Of the wild witcli's baneful cot, 
And mermaid's alabaster grot, 
Who bathes her limbs in sunless well, 
Deep in Strathaird's enchanted cell.^' 
Thither in fancy wrapt he flies. 
And on his sight the vaults arise ; 
That hut's dark walls he sees no more, 
His foot is on the marble floor, 
And o'er his head the dazzling spars 
Gleam like a firmament of stars 1 






THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



m 



— Hark I hears he not the sea-nymph speak 
Her anger in that thrilling shriek ! — 
No ! all too late, with Allan's dream . 
Mingled the captive's warning scream. 
As from the ground he strives to start, 
A ruffian's dagger finds his heart ! 
Upward he casts his dizzy eyes, * * * 
Murmurs his master's name, * * * and dies ! 



Not so awoke the King ! his hand 
Snatch'd from the flame a knotted brand, 
The nearest weapon of iiis wrath ; 
With this he cross'd the murderer's path, 

And venged young Allan well ! 
The spatter'd brain and bubbli.ig blood . 
Hiss'd on the half-extinguish'd wood, 

The miscreant gasp'd and fell ! 
Nor rose in peace the Island Lord ; 
One caitiff died upon his sword, 
And one beneath his grasp lies prone. 
In mortal grapple overthrown. 
But while Lord Ronald's dagger drank 
The life-blood from his panting flank, 
The Father-ruffian of the band 
Behind him rears a coward hand ! 

— O for a moment's aid, 
Till Bruce, who deals no double blow 
Dash to the earth another foe, 

Above his comrade laid ! — ■ 
And it is gain'd — the captive sprung 
On the raised arm, and closely clung. 

And, ere he shook him loose. 
The master'd felon press'd the ground. 
And gasp'd beneath the mortal wound, 

While o'er him stands the Bruce. 



" Miscreant ! while lasts thy flitting spark. 
Give me to know the purpose dark, 
That arm'd thy hand with murderous knife. 
Against offenceless stranger's life ? " 
" No stranger thou ! "' with accent fell, 
Murmur'd the wretch ; " I know thee well ; 
And know thee for the foeman sworn 
Of my high Chief, the mighty Lorn." 
" Speak yet again, and speak the truth 
For thy soul's sake ! — from whence this 

youth .' 
His country, birth, and name declare. 
And thus one evil deed repair." — 
— " Vex me no more 1 * * * my blood runs 

cold * * * 
No more I know than I have told. 
We found him in a bark we sought 
With different purpose * * * and I 

thought" ♦ * * 



Fate cut him short ; in blood and broil, 
As he had lived, died Cormac Doil. 

XXXI. 

Then resting on his bloody blade, 
The valiant Bruce to Roland said, 
" Now shame upon us both I^that boy 

Lifts his mute face to heaven, 
.\nd clasps his hands to testify 
His gratitude to God on high, 

For strange deliverance given. 
His speechless gesture thanks hath paid, 
Which our free tongues have left unsaid T' 
He raised the youth with kindly woid, 
But mark'd him shudder at the sword : 
He cleansed it from its hue of de.\th, 
And plunged the weapon in its sheath. 
" Alas, poor child ! unfitting part 
Fate doom'd, when with so soft a heart, 

And form so sHght as thine. 
She made thee first a pirate's slave. 
Then, in his stead, a patron gave 

Of wayward lot like mine ; 
A landless prince, whose wandering life 
Is but one scene of blood and strife — 
Yet scant of friends the Bruce shall be, 
But he'll find resting-place for thee. — 
Come, noble Ronald ! o'er the dead 
Enough thy generous grief is paid. 
And well has Allan's fate been wroke ; 
Come, wend we hence — the day has broke, 
Seek we our bark — I trust the tale 
Was false, that she had hoisted sail." 



Yet, ere they left that charnel-cell. 
The Island Lord bade sad farewell 
To Allan :— " Who shall tell this tale," 
He said, " in halls of Donagaile ! 
Oh, who his widow'd mother tell. 
That, ere his bloom, her fairest fell ! — 
Rest thee, poor youth ! and trust my care 
For mass and knell and funeral prayer ; 
While o'er those caitiffs, where they lie, 
The wolf shall snarl, the raven cry ! " 
And now the eastern mountain's head 
On the dark lake threw lustre red ; 
Bright gleams of gold and purple streak 
Ravine and precipice and peak — 
(So earthly power at distance shows; 
Reveals his splendor, hides his woes.) 
O'er sheets of granite dark and broad, 
Rent and unequal, lay the road. 
In sad discourse the warriors wind, 
And the mute captive moves behind. 







278 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS 



CANTO FOURTH. 
I. 

Stranger ! if e'er thine ardent step 

liath traced 
Tiie northern realms of ancient Caledon, 
Where the proud Queen of Wilderness 

hath placed, 
By lake and cataract, her lonely throne ; 
Sublime but sad delight thy soul hath 

known. 
Gazing on pathless glen and mountain 

high, 
Listing where from the cliffs the torrents 

thrown 
Mingle their echoes with the eagle's cry, 
And with the sounding lake, and with the 

moaning sky. 

Yes ! 'twas sublime, but sad. — The lone- 
liness 

Loaded thy heart, the desert tired thine 
eye ; 

And strange and awful fears began to 
press 

Thy bosom with a stern solemnity. 

Then hast thou wish'd some woodman's 
cottage nigh^ 

Something that show'd of life, though 
low and mean ; 

Glad sight, its curling wreath of smoke 
to spy, 

Glad sound, its cock's blithe carol would 
have been, 
Or children whooping wild beneath the wil- 
lows green. 

•Such are tlie scenes, where savage gran- 
deur wakes 
An awful thrill that softens into sighs ; 
Such feelings rouse '\liem by dim Ran- 

noch's lakes, 
In dark Glencoe such gloomy raptures 

rise ; 
Or farther, where, beneath the northern 

skies, 
Chides wild Loch - Eribol his caverns 

hoar — • 
But, be the minstrel judge, they yield the 

prize 
Of desert dignity to that dread shore, 
That sees grim Coolin rise, and hears 

Coriskin roar. 

II. 
Through such wild scenes the champion 

pass'd. 
When bold halloo and bugle-blast 



Upon the breeze came loud and fast. 

" There," said the Bruce, " rung Edward's 

horn ! 
Whan can have caused such brief return ? 
And see, brave Ronald, — see him dart 
O'er stock and stone like hunted hart. 
Precipitate, as is the use, 
In war or sport, of Edward Bruce. 
— He marks us, and his eager cry 
Will tell his news ere he be nigh." 

in. 
Loud Edward shouts, " What make ye 

here, 
Warring upon the mountain-deer, 

When Scotbnd wants her king ? 
A bark from Lennox cross'd our track, 
With her in speed I hurried back, 

These joyful news to bring — 
The Stuart stirs in Teviotdale, 
And Douglas wakes his native vale ; 
Thy storm-toss'd fleet hath won its way 
With little loss to Brodick-Bay, 
And Lennox, with a gallant band, 
Waits but thy coming and command 
To waft them o'er to Carrick strand. 
There are blithe news ! — but mark the 

close ! 
Edward, the deadliest of our foes. 
As with his host he northward pass'd, 
Hath on the Borders breathed his last." 

IV. 

Still stood the Bruce — his steady cheek 
Was little wont his joy to speak. 

But then his color rose : 
" Now, Scotland ! shortly shalt thou see 
With God's high will, thy children free, 

And vengeance on tliy foes ! 
Yet to no sense of selfish wrongs, 
Bear witness with me. Heaven, belongs 

My joy o'er Edward's bier ; ^^ 
I took my knighthood at his hand, 
And lordship held of him, and land. 

And well may vouch it here, 
That, blot the story from his page, 
Of Scotland ruin'd in his rage, 
You read a monarch brave and sage. 

And to his people dear." 
" Let London's burghers mourn her Lord, 
And Croydon monks his praise record," 

The eager Edward said ; 
" Eternal as his own, my hate 
Surmounts the bounds of mortal fate, 

And dies not with the dead ! 
Such hate was his on Solway's strand. 
When vengeance clench'd his palsied haiicj, 
That pointed yet to Scotland's land. 







THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



^79 



As his last accents pray'd 
Disgrace and curse upon his heir, 
If he one Scottish head should spare, 
Till stretch'd upon the bloody lair 

Each rebel corpse was laid 1 
Such hate was his, when his last breath 
Renounced the peaceful house of death, 
And bade his bones to Scotland's coast 
Be borne by his remorseless host, 
As if his dead and stony eye 
Could still enjoy her misery ! 
Such hate was his — dark, deadly, long ! 
Mine, — as enduring, deep, and strong ! '' — 



" Let women, Edward, war with words. 

With curses monks, but men with swords : 

Nor doubt of living foes, to sate 

Deepest revenge and deadliest hate. 

Now, t' the sea I behold the beach, 

And see the galleys' pendants stretch 

Their fluttering length down favoring gale ! 

Aboard, aboard I and hoist the sail. 

Hold we our way for Arran first. 

Where meet in arms our friends dispersed ; 

Lennox the loyal, De la Haye, 

And Boyd the bold in battle fray. 

1 long the hardy band to head. 

And see once more my standard spread. — 

Does noble Ronald share our course, 

Or stay to raise his island force ? " — 

" Come weal, come woe, by Bruce's side," 

Replied the Chief, "will Ronald bide. 

And since two galleys j'onder ride, 

Be mine, so please my liege, dismiss'd 

To wake to arms the clans of Uist, 

And all who liear the IVIinche's roar, 

On the Long Island's lonely shore. 

The nearer Isles, with slight delay. 

Ourselves may summon in our way ; 

And soon on Arran's shore shall meet. 

With Torquil's aid, a gallant fleet. 

If aught avails their Chieftain's best 

Among the islesinen of the west." 



Thus was theii venturous council said. 
But, ere their sails the galleys spread, 
Coriskin dark and Coolin high 
Echoed the dirge's doleful cry. 
Along that sable lake pass'd slow, — 
(-■ Fit scene for such a sight of woe, 

The sorrowing islesmen, as they bore 
The murder'd Allan to the shore. 
At every pause, with dismal shout, 
Thojr coronach of grief rung out, 






And ever, when they moved again. 
The pipes resumed their clamorous strain, 
And, with the pibroch's shrilling wail, 
Mourn'd the young heir of Donagaile. 
Round and around, from cliff and cave, 
His answer stern old Coolin gave, 
Till high upon his misty side 
Languish'd the mournful notes, and died. 
For never sounds, by mortal made, 
Attain'd his high and haggard head. 
That echoes but the tempest's moan, 
Or the deep thunder's rending groan. 

VII. 

Merrily, merrily bounds the bark. 

She bounds before the gale, 
The mountain breeze from Ben-na-darch 

Is joyous in her sail ! 
With fluttering sound like laughter hoarse, 

The cords and canvas strain, 
The waves, divided by her force, 
In rippling eddies chased her course, 

As if they laugh'd again. 
Not down the breeze more blithely flew, 
Skimming the wave, the light sea-mew, 

Than the gay galley bore. 
Her course upon that favoring wind. 
And Coolin's crest had sunk behind. 

And Slapin's cavern'd shore. 
'Twas then that warlike signals wake 
Dunscaith's dark towers and Eisord's lake, 
And soon, from Cavilgarrigh's head. 
Thick wreaths of eddying smoke were 

spread ; 
A summons these of war and wrath 
To the brave clans of Sleat and Strath, 

And, ready at the sight, 
Each warrior to his weapons sprung, 
And targe upon his shoulder flung, 

Impatient for the fight. 
Mac-Kinnon's chief, in warfare gray. 
Had charge to muster their array, 
And guide their barks to Brodick-Bay. 

VIII. 

Signal of Ronald's high command, 
A beacon gleam'd o'or sea and land. 
From Canna's towc, that, steep and gray, 
Like falcon-nest o'erhangs the bay. 
Seek not the giddy crag to climb, 
To view the turret scathed by time. 
It is a task of doubt and fear 
To aught but goat or mountain-deer 
But rest thee on the silver beach. 
And let the aged herdsman teach 

His tale of former day ; 
His cur's wild clamor he shall chide, 
And for thy seat by ocean's side, 






28o 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



His varied plaid display ; 

Then tell, how with their Chieftain came, 

In ancient times a foreign dame 
To yonder turret gray. 
Stem was her Lord's suspicious mind, 
Who in so rude a jail confined 

So soft and fair a thrall ! 
And oft, when moon on ocean slept, 
That lovely lady sate and wept 

Upon the castle wall, 
And turn'd her eye to southern climes, 
And thought perchance of happier times. 
And touch'd her lute by fits, and sung 
Wild ditties in her native tongue. 
And still, when on the cliff and bay. 
Placid and pale the moonbeams play. 

And every breeze is mute, 
Upon the lone Hebridean's ear 
Steals a strange pleasure mix'd with fear. 
While from that cliff he seems to hear 

The murmur of a lute, 
And sounds, as of a captive lone. 
That mourns her woes in tongue un- 
known 

Strange is the tale — but all too long 
Already hath it staid the song — 

Yet who may pass them by. 
That crag and tower in ruins gray. 
Nor to their hapless tenant pay 

The tribute of a sigh 1 

IX. 

Merrily, merrily bounds the bark 

O'er the broad ocean driven, 
Her path by Renin's mountains dark 

The steersman's hand hath given. 
And Ronin's mountains dark have sent 

Their huniers to the shore,^"* 
And each his ashen bow unbent. 

And gave his pastime o'er. 
And at the Island Lord's command, 
For hunting spear took warrior's brand. 
On Scooreigg next a warning light 
Summon'd her warriors to the fight ; 
A numerous race, ere stern MacLeod 
O'er their bleak shores in vengeance 

strode,"^ 
Wlien all in vain the ocean-cave 
Its refuge to his victims gave. 
The Chief, relentless in his wrath. 
With blazing heath blockades the path ; 
In dense and stifling volumes roll'd. 
The vapor fill'd the cavern'd hold ! 
The warrior-threat, the infant's plain. 
The mother's screams were heard in vain I 
The vengeful Chief maintains his fires, 
Till in the vault a tribe expires ! 



The bones which strew that caverns gloom 
Too well attest their dismal doom. 



Merrily, merrily goes the bark 

On a breeze from the northward free, 
So shoots through the morning sky the lark, 

Or the swan through the summer sea. 
The shores of Mull on the eastward lay, 
And Ulva dark and Colonsay, 
And all the group of islets gay 

That guard famed Staffa round. 
Then all unknown its columns rose, 
Where dark and undlsturb'd repose 

The cormorant had found, 
And the shy seal had quiet home, 
And welter'd in that wondrous dome, 
Where, as to shame the temples deck'd 
By skill of earthly architect. 
Nature herself, it seem'd would raise 
A Minster to her Maker's praise ! 
Not for a meaner use ascend 
Her columjis, or her arches bend ; 
Nor of a theme less solemn tells 
That mighty surge that ebbs and swells, 
And still, between each awful pause. 
From the higli vault an answer draws, 
In varied tone prolong'd and high. 
That mocks the organ's melody. 
Nor doth its entrance front in vain 
To old lona's holy fane. 
That Nature's voice might seem to say, 
" Well hast thou done, frail Child of clayl 
Thy humble powers that stately shrine 
Task'd high and hard — but witness mine I* 



Merrily, merrily goes the bark, 

Before the gale she bounds ; 
So darts the dolphin from the shark. 

Or the deer before the hounds. 
They left Loch-Tua on their lee. 
And they waken 'd the men of the wile 
Tiree, 

And the Chief of the sandy Coll ; 
They paused i,ot at Columba's isle. 
Though peal'd the bells from the holy pile 

With long and measured toll ; 
No time for matin or for mass. 
And the sounds of the holy summons pass 

Away in the billows' roll. 
Lochbuie's fierce and warlike Lord 
Their signal saw, and grasp'd his sword, 
And verdant Islay call'd her host, 
And the clans of Jura's rugged coast 

Lord Ronald's call obey, 





' And all the group of islets gay 
That guard famed StafFa round." 

The Lord of the Isles, cauto iv. 10. 




THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



281 



And Scarba's isle, whose tortured shore 
Still rings to Corrievreken's roar, 

And lonely Colonsay ; 
— Scenes sung by him who sings no more ! ^* 
His bright and brief career is o'er, 

And mute his tuneful strains ; 
Quench'd is his lamp of varied lore, 
That loved the light of song to pour ; 
A distant and a deadly shore 

Has Leyden's cold remains ! 

XII. 

Ever the breeze blows merrily, 
Bui the galley ploughs no more the sea. 
Lest, rounding wild Cantyre, they meet 
The southern foemen's watchful fleet. 

They held unwonted way ; — 
Up Tarbat's western lake they bore. 
Then dragg'd their bark the isthmus o'er,^^ 
As far as Kilmaconnel's shore, 

Upon the eastern bay. 
It was a wondrous sight to see 
Topmast and pennon glitter free. 
High raised above the greenwood tree. 
As on dry land the galley moves. 
By cliff and copse and alder groves. 
Deep import from that selcouth sign, 
Did many a mountain Seer divine. 
For ancient legends told the Gael, 
That when a royal bark should sail 

O'er Kilmaconnel moss. 
Old Albyn should in fight prevail. 
And every foe should faint and quail 

Before her silver Cross. 



Now launch'd once more, the inland sea 
They furrow with fair augury, 

And steer for Arran's isle ; 
The sun, ere yet he sunk behind 
Ben-Ghoil, " the Mountain of the Wind,' 
Gave his grim peaks a greeting kind. 

And bade Loch Ranza smile. ^^ 
Thither their destined course they drew ; 
It seenrd the isle her monarch knew, 
So brilliant was the landward view. 

The ocean so serene ; 
Each puny wave in diamonds roll'd 
O'er the calm deep, where hues of gold 

With azure strove and green. 
The hill, the vale, the tree, the tower, 
Glow'd with the tints of evening's hour. 

The beach was silver sheen. 
The wind breathed soft as lover's sigh, 
And, oft renew'd, seem'd oft to die. 

With breathless pause between. 
O who, with speech of war and woes, 



Would wish to break the soft repose 
Of such enchanting scene 1 



Is it of war Lord Ronald speaks ? 
The blush that dyes his manly cheeks, 
The timid look and downcast eye, 
And faltering voice the theme deny. 

And good King Robert's brow express'd, 
He ponder'd o'er some high request. 

As doubtful to approve ; 
Yet in his eye and lip the while, 
Dwelt the half-pitying glance and smile^ 
Which manhood's graver mood beguile, 
When lovers talk of love. 
Anxious his suit Lord Ronald pled ; 
— " And for my bride bethrothed,'' he said, 
" My Liege has heard the rumor spread. 
Of Edith from Artornisb fled. 
Too hard lier fate — I cl;<im no right 
To blame her for her hasty flight ; 
Be joy and happiness her lot ! — 
But she hath fled the bridal knot. 
And Lorn recall'd his promised plight, 
In the assembled chieftains' sight. — 
When, to fulfil our fathers' band, 
I proffer' d all I could — my hand — 

I was repulsed with scorn ; 

Mine honor I should ill assert. 

And worse the feelings of my heart. 

If I should play a suitor's part 

Again, to pleasure Lorn.'' 



" Young Lord,'' the royal Bruce replied, 
" That question must the Church decide ; 
Yet seems it hard, since rumors state 
Edith takes Clifford for her mate. 
The very tie, which she hath broke. 
To thee should still be binding yoke. 
But, for my sister Isabel — 
The mood of woman who can tell '' 
I guess the Champion of the Rock, 
Victorious in the tourney shock, 
That knight unknown, to whom the prize 
She dealt, — had favor in her eyes ; 
But since our brother Nigel's fate, 
Our ruin'd house and hapless state. 
From worldly joy and hope estranged, 
Much is the hapless mourner changed. 
Perchance," here smiled the noble King, 
" This tale may other musings bring. 
Soon shall we know — yon mountains hide 
The little convent of Saint Bride ; 
There, sent by Edward, she must stay, 
Till fate shall give more prosperous day; 





I 





SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And thither will I bear thy suit, 
Nor will thine advocate be mute." 



As thus they talk'd in earnest mood, 
That speechless boy beside them stood. 
He stoop'd his head against the mast, 
And bitter sobs came thick and fast, 
A grief that would not be repress'd. 
But seem'd to burst his youthful breast. 
His hands, against his forehead held, 
As if by force his tears repell'd. 
But through his fingers, long and slight, 
Fast trili'd the drops of crystal bright. 
Edward, who walk'd the deck apart. 
First spied this conflict of the heart. 
Thoughtless as brave, with bluntness kind 
He sought to cheer the sorrower's mind ; 
By force the slender hand he drew 
From those poor eyes that stream'd with 

dew. 
As in his hold the stripling strove, — 
('Twas a rough grasp, though meant in 

love,) 
Away his tears the warrior swept. 
And bade shame on him that he wept. 
" I would to Heaven, thy helpless tongue 
Could tell me who hath wrought thee 

wrong ! 
For, were he of our crew the best, 
The insult went not unredress'd. 
Come, cheer thee ; thou art now of age 
To be a warrior's gallant page ; 
Thou shalt be mine ! — a palfrey fair 
O'er hill and holt my boy shall bear. 
To hold my bow in hunting grove, 
Or speed on errand to my love ; 
For well I wot thou wilt not tell 
The temple where my wishes dwell. " 



Bruce interposed, — " Gay Edward, no. 
This is no youth to hold thy bow, 
To fill thy goblet, or to bear 
Thy message light to lighter fair. 
Thou art a patron all too wild 
And thoughtless, for this orphan child. 
See'st thou not how apart he steals. 
Keeps lonely couch, and lonely meals ? 
Fitter by far in yon calm cell 
To tend our sister Isabel, 
With Father Augustin to share 
The peaceful change of convent prayer, 
Than wander wild adventures through. 
With such a reckless guide as you.'' — 
" Thanks, brother ! " Edward answer'd 
gay, 



" For the high laud thy words convey ! 
But we may learn some future day. 
If thou or I can this poor boy 
Protect the best, or best employ. 
Meanwhile, our vessel nears the strand ; 
Launch we the boat, and seek the land." 



To land King Robert lightly sprung, 
And thrice aloud his bugle rung 
With note prolong'd and varied strain, 
Till bold Ben-Ghoil replied again. 
Good Douglas then, and De la Haye, 
Had in a glen a hart at bay, 
And Lennox cheer'd the laggard hounds, 
When waked that horn the greenwood 

bounds. 
" It is the foe ! " cried Boyd, who came 
In breathless haste with eye of flame, — 
"It is the foe ! — Each valiant lord 
Fling by his bow, and grasp his sword ! " — 
" Not so," replied the good Lord James^ 
" That blast no English bugle claims. 
Oft have I heard it fire the fight, 
Cheer the pursuit, or stop the flight. 
Dead were mv heart, and deaf mine ear, 
If Bruce should call, nor Douglas hear 1 
Each to Loch Ranza's margin spring ; 
That blast was winded by the King ! " ^9 



Fast to their mates the tidings spread, 
And <^ast to shore the warriors sped. 
Bursting from glen and greenwood tree, 
High waked their loyal jubilee ! 
Around the royal Bruce they crowd, 
And clasp'd his hands, and went aloud. 
Veterans of early fields were there, 
Whose helmets press'd their hoary hair. 
Whose swords and axes bore a stain 
From life-blood of the red-hair'd Dane ; 
And boys, whose hUnds scarce brook'd to 

wield 
The heavy sword or bossy shield. 
Men too were there, that bore the scars 
Impress'd in Albyn's woeful wars, 
ki Falkirk's fierce and fatal fight, 
Teyndrum's dread rout, and Methven's 

flight ; 
The might of Douglas there was seen. 
There Lennox with his graceful mien ; 
Kirkpatrick, Closeburn's dreaded Knight; 
The Lindsay, fiery, fierce, and light ; 
The Heir of murder'd De la Haye, 
And Boyd the grave, and Seton gay. 
Aroimd their King regain'd they press'd, 
Wept, shouted, clasp'd him to their breast. 






^ 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



28: 



And young and old, and serf and lord, 
And he who ne'er unsheathed a sword, 
And he in many a p^ril tried, 
Alike resolved the brunt to bide. 
And live or die by Bruce's side ! 

XX, 

Oh, War ! thou hast thy fierce delight. 
Thy gleams of joy, intensely bright ! 
Such gleams, as from thy polish'd shield 
Fly dazzling o'er the battle-field ! 
Such transports wake, severe and high, 
Amid the pealing conquest-cry ; 
Scarce less, when, after battle lost, 
Muster the remnants of a host, 
And as each comrade's name they tell, 
Who in the well-fought conflict fell. 
Knitting stern brow o'er flashing eye. 
Vow to avenge them or to die ! — 
Warriors ! — and where are warriors found, 
If not on martial Britain's ground ? 
And who, when waked with note of fire, 
Love more than they the British lyre? — 
Know ye not, — hearts to honor dear ! 
That joy, deep-thrilling, stern, severe, 
At which the heart-strings vibrate high, 
And wake the fountains of the eye ? 
And blame ye, then, the Bruce, if trace 
Of tear is on his manly face. 
When, scanty relics of the train 
That hail'd at Scone his early reign. 
This patriot band around him hung. 
And to his knees and bosom clung ? — 
Blame ye the Bruce ? — his brother blamed, 
But shared the weakness, while ashamed, 
With haughty laugh his head he turn'd, 
And dash'd away the tear he scorn'd.3° 



'Tis morning, and the Convent bc'l 
Long time had ceased its matin knell, 

Within thy walls, Saint Bride ! 
An aged Sister sought the ceil 
Assign'd to Lady Isabel, 

And hurriedly she cried, 
*' Haste, gentle Lady, haste — there waits 
A noble stranger at the gates ; 
Saint Bride's poor vot'ress ne'er has seen 
A Knight of such a princely mien ; 
His errand, as he bade me tell. 
Is with the Lady Isabel. " 
The princess rose, — for on her knee 
Low bent she told her rosary, — 
" Let him by thee his purpose teach ; 
I may not give a stranger speech." — 
" Saint Bride forefend, thou royal Maid I ' 
The portress cross'd herself, and said. 



" Not to be prioress might I 
Debate his will, his suit deny." — 
" Has earthly show then, simple fool, 
Power o'er a sister of thy rule ? 
And art thou, like the worldly train, 
Subdued by splendors light and vain ? " — 



" No, Lady I in old eyes like mine. 

Gauds have no glitter, gems no shine; 

Nor grace his rank attendants vain, 

One youthful page is all his train. 

It is the form, the eye, the word, 

The bearing of that stranger Lord; 

His stature, manly, bold, and tall. 

Built like a castle's battled wall, 

Yet moulded in such just degrees, 

His giant strength seems lightsome ease. 

Close as the tendrils of the vine 

His locks upon his forehead twine, 

Jet-black, save where some touch of gray 

Has ta'en the youthful hue away. 

Weather and war their rougher trace 

Have left on that majestic face ; — 

But 'tis his dignity of eye ! 

There, if a suppliant, would I fly, 

Secure, 'mid danger, wrongs, and grief, 

Of sympathy, redress, relief — • 

That glance, if guilty, would I dread 

More than the doom that spoke rae 

dead ! "— 
" Enough, enough," the princess cried, 
" 'Tis Scotland's hope, her joy, her pride ! 
To meaner front was ne'er assign'd 
Such mastery o'er the common mind — 
Bestow'd thy high designs to aid. 
How long, O Heaven ' how long de- 
lay' d !— 
Haste, Mona, haste, to introduce 
My ciarling brother, royal Bruce ! " 



They met like friends who part in pain, 
.And meet in doubtful hope again. 
But when subdued that fitful swell, 
riie Bruce survey'd the humble cell ! — 
•' And this is thine, poor Isabel ! — 
That pallet-couch, and naked wall, 
For room of state, and bed of pall ; 
For costly robes and jewels rare, 
A string of beads and zone of hair; 
And for the trumpet's sprightly call 
To sport or banquet, grove or hall. 
The bell's grim voice divides thy care, 
'Twixt hours of penitence and prayer! — 
O ill for thee, my royal claim 
From the First David's sainted namel 






284 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



O woe for thee, that while he sought 
His right, thy brother feebly fought ! " — 



'* Now lay these vain regrets aside, 

And be the unshaken Bruce ! " she cried. 

" For more I glory to have shared 

The woes thy venturous spirit dared. 

When raising first thy valiant band 

In rescue of thy native land, 

Than had fair Fortune set me down 

The partner of an empire's crown. 

And grieve not that on Pleasure's stream 

No more I drive in giddy dream, 

For Heaven the erring pilot knew, 

And from the gulf the vessel drew, 

Tried me with judgments stern and great. 

My house's ruin, thy defeat, 

Poor Nigel's death, till, tamed, I own. 

My hopes are fix'd on Heaven alone ; 

Nor e'er shall earthly prospects win 

My heart to this vain world of sin." — 



" Nay, Isabel, for such stern choice. 

First wilt thou wait thy brother's voice ; 

Then ponder if in convent scene 

'No softer thoughts might intervene — 

Say they were of that unknown Knight, 

Victor in Woodstock's tourney-fight — 

Nay, if his name such blush you owe, 

Victorious o'er a fairer foe ! " 

Truly his penetrating eye 

Hath caught that blush's passing dye, — • 

Like the last beam of evening thrown 

On a white cloud, — just seen and gone. 

Soon with calm cheek and steady eye. 

The princess made composed reply : — 

" I guess my brother's meaning well ; 

For not so silent is the cell, 

But we have heard the islesmen all 

Arm in thy cause at Ronald's call. 

And mine eyes prove that Knight unknown 

And the brave Island Lord are one. — 

Had then his suit been earlier made. 

In liis own name, with thee to aid, 

(But that his plighted faith forbade,) 

I know not * * * But thy page so near.' — 

This is no tale for menial's ear." 

XXVI. 

Still stood that page, as far apart 

As the small cell would space afford ; 

With dizzy eye and bursting heart. 
He leant his weight on Bruce's sword ; 

The monarch's mantle too he bore. 

And drew the fold his visage o'er. 



" Fear not for him — in murderous strife," 

Said Bruce, "his warnmg saved my life; 

Full seldom parts he from my side, 

And in his silence I confide. 

Since he can tell no tale again. 

He is a boy of gentle strain. 

And I have purposed he shall dwell 

In Augustin the chaplain's cell, 

And wait on thee, my Isabel. — 

Mind not his tears ; I've seen them flow, 

As in tlie thaw dissolves the snow. 

'Tis a kind youth, but fanciful, 

Unfit against the tide to pull. 

And those that with the Bruce would sail, 

Must learn to strive with stream and gale.- 

But forward, gentle Isabel — 

My answer for Lord Ronald tell." — 



" This answer be to Ronald given — 

The heart he asks is fix'd on heaven. 

My love was like a summer flower, 

That wither'd in the wintry hour, 

Born but of vanity and pride. 

And with these sunny visions died. 

If further press his suit — then say, 

He should his plighted troth obey, 

Troth plighted both with ring and word, 

And sworn on crucifix and sword. — 

Oh, shame thee, Robert ! I have seen 

Thou hast a woman's guardian been ! 

Even in extremity's dread hour, 

When press'd on thee the Southern power 

And safety, to all human sight. 

Was only found in rapid flight. 

Thou heard'st a wretched female plain 

In agony of travail-pain. 

And thou didst bid thy little band 

Upon the instant turn and stand, 

And dare the worst the foe might do. 

Rather than, like a knight untrue, 

Leave to pursuers merciless 

A woman in her last distress.^' 

And wilt thou now deny thine aid 

To an oppress'd and injured maid. 

Even plead for Ronald's perfidy, 

And press his fickle faith on me .'' — 

So witness Heaven, as true I vow, 

Had I tliose earthly feelings now. 

Which could my former bosom move 

Ere taught to set its hopes above, 

I'd spurn each proffer lie could bring, 

Till at my feet he laid the ring. 

The ring and spousal contract both, 

And fair acquiital of his oath. 

By her who brooks his perjured scorn, 

The ill-requited Maid of Lorn 1 " 






THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



285 



With sudden impulse forward sprung 
The page, and on her neck he hung ; 
Then, recollected instantly. 
His head he stoop'd, and bent his knee, 
Kiss'd twice the liand of Isabel, 
Arose, and sudden left the cell. — 
The princess, loosen'd from his hold. 
Blushed angry at his bearing bold ; 

But good King Robert cried, 
" Chafe not — by signs he speaks his mind, 
He heard the plan my care design'd, 

■pJor could his transports hide. — 
But, sister, now bethink thee well ; 
No easy choice the convent cell ! 
Trust, I shall play no tyrant part, 
Either to force thy hand or heart, 
Or suffer that Lord Ronald scorn, 
Or wrong for thee, the Maid of Lorn. 
But think, — not long the time has been. 
That thou wert wont to sigh unseen, 
And wouldst the ditties best approve, 
That told some lay of hapless love. 
Now are thy wishes in thy power. 
And thou art bent on cloister bower ! 
O ! if our Edward knew the change, 
How would his busy satire range, 
With many a sarcasm varied still 
On woman's wish, and woman's will ! " — 

XXIX. 

" Brother, I well believe," she said, 

" Even so would Edward's part be play'd. 

Kindly in heart, in word severe, 

A foe to thought, and grief, and fear, 

He holds his humor uncontroU'd ; 

But thou art of another mould. 

Say then to Ronald, as I say, 

Unless before my feet he lay 

The ring which bound the faith he swore. 

By Edith freely yielded o'er. 

He moves his suit to me no more. 

Nor do I promise, even if now 

He stood absolved of spousal vow, 

That I would change my purpose made 

To shelter me in holy shade. — 

Brother, for little space, farewell ! 

To other duties warns the bell ! " — 

XXX. 

" Lost to the world," King Robert said. 
When he had left the royal maid, 
" Lost to the world by lot severe, 
O what a gem lies buried here, 
Nipp'd by misfortune's cruel frost, 
The buds of fair affection lost ! 
But what have I with love to do ? 
Far sterner cares my lot pursue. 



— Pent in this isle we may not lie, 
Nor would it long our wants supply. 
Right opposite, the mainland towers 
Of my own Turnberry court our powers- 
— Might not my father's beadsman hoar, 
Cuthbert, who dwells upon the shore. 
Kindle a signal-flame, to show 
The time propitious for tlie blow ? 
It shall be so — some friend shall bear 
Our mandate with despatch and care ; 
— Edward shall find the messenger. 
That fortress ours, the island fleet 
May on the coast of Carrick meet. — 
O Scotland ! shall it e'er be mine 
To wreak thy wrongs in battle-line, 
To raise my victor-head, and see 
Thy hills, thy dales, thy people free, — 
That glance of bliss is all I crave, 
Betwixt my labors and my grave ! *' 
Then down the hill he slowly went, 
Oft pausing on the steep descent. 
And rearh'd the spot where his bold train 
Held rustic camp upon the plain. 



CANTO FIFTH 



On fair Loch-Ranza stream'd the early 

day. 
Thin wreaths of cottage smoke are up 

ward curl'd 
From the lone hamlet, which her inland 

bay 
And circling mountains sever from the 

world. 
And there the fisherman his sail unfurl'd, 
The goat-herd drove his kids to steep 

Ben-Ghoil. 
Before the hut the dame her spindle 

twirl'd. 
Courting the sunbeam as she plied her 

toil,— 
For, wake where'er he may, Man wakes to 

care and coil. 

But other duties call'd each convent 
maid. 

Roused by the summons of the moss- 
grown bell, 

Sung were the matins, and the mass was 
said. 

And every sister sought her separate cell, 

Such was the rule, her rosary to tell. 

And Isabel has knelt in lonely prayer • 





j£ 




286 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The sunbeam, through the narrow lattice 
fell 

Upon the snowy neck and long dark 
hair, 
As stoop'd her gentle head in meek devo- 
tion there. 



She raised her eyes, that duty done, 
When glanced upon the pavement-stone, 
Gemm'd and enchased, a golden ring, 
Bound to a scroll with silken string. 
With few brief words inscribed to tell, 
" This for the Lady Isabel.'' 
Within, the writing further bore, 
*' 'Twas with this ring his plight he swore, 
With this his promise I restore ; 
To her who can the heart command, 
Well may I yield the plighted hand. 
And O 1 for better fortune born, 
Grudge not a passing sigh to mourn 
Her who was Edith once of Lorn !'' 
One single flash of glad surprise 
Just glanced from Isabel's dark eyes. 
But vanish'd in the blush of shame, 
That, as its penance, instant came. 
" O thought unworthy of my race ! 
Selfish, ungenerous, mean, and base, 
A moment's throb of joy to own. 
That rose upon her hopes e'erthrown ! — 
Thou pledge of vows too well believed. 
Of man ingrate and maid deceived, 
Think not thy lustre here shall gain 
Another heart to hope in vain ! 
For thou shalt I'est, thou tempting gaud. 
Where worldly thoughts are overawed, 
And worldly splendors sink debased.'' 
Then by the cross the rmg she placed. 

III. 
Next rose the thought, — its owner far, 
How came it here through bolt and bar ? — 
But the dim lattice is ajar. — 
She looks abroad, the morning dew 
A light short step had brush'd anew, 

And there were foot-prints seen 
On the carved buttress rising still. 
Till on the mossy window-sill. 

Their track effaced the green. 
The ivy twigs were torn and fray'd, 
As if some climber's steps to aid. — 
But who the hardy messenger, 
Whose venturous path these signs infer? — 
" Strange doubts are mine ! — Mona, draw 

nigh ; 
—Nought 'scapes old Mona's curious eye — 
What strangers, gentle mother, say, 
Have sought these holy walls to-day t " — 



" None, Lady, none of note or name ; 
Only your brother's foot-page came, 
At peep of dawn — I pray'd him pass 
To chapel where they said the mass ; 
But like an arrow he shot by, 
.-Ynd tears seem'd bursting from his eye." 



The truth at once on Isabel, 

.\s darted by a sunbeam, fell, 

" 'Tis Edith's self I — her speechless woe, 

Her form, her looks, the secret show [ 

— Instant, good Mona, to the bay. 

And to my royal brother say, 

I do conjure him seek my cell. 

With that mute page he loves so well.'' — 

" What ! know'st thou not his warlike host 

At break of day has left our coast ? 

My old eyes saw them from the tower. 

At eve they couch'd in greenwood bower, 

At dawn a bugle signal, made 

By th.jir bold Lord, their ranks array'd ; 

Up spnmg the spears through bush and 

tree, 
No time for benedicite ! 
Like deer, that, rousing from their lair. 
Just shake the dewdrops from their hair, 
And toss their armed crests aloft, 
Such matins theirs!'' — "Good mother, 

soft— 
Where does my brother bend his way ? " 
" As I have heard, for Brodick-Bay, 
.\cross the isle — of barks a score 
Lie there, 'tis said, to waft them o'er, 
On sudden news, to Carrick-shore." — 
" If such their purpose, deep the need," 
Said anxious Isabel, " of speed ! 
Call Father Augustin, good dame." 
The nun obey'd, the Father came. 



" Kind Father, hie without delay, 

Across the hills to Brodick-Bay. 

This message to the Bruce be given ; 

I pray him, by his hopes of Heaven, 

That, till he speak with me, he stay !— 

Or, if his haste brook no delay, 

That he deliver, on my suit, 

Into thy charge that stripling mute. 

Thus prays his sister Isabel, 

For causes more than she may tell — 

Away, good father ! and take heed, 

That life and death are on thy speed." 

His cowl the good old priest did on, 

Took his piked staff and sandall'd shccm, 

And, like a palmer bent by eld, 

O'er moss and moor his journey held 







THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



287 



Heavy and dull the foot of age, 
And rugged was the pilgrimage ; 
But none was there beside, whosj care 
Might such important message bear. 
Through birchen copse he wander'd slow. 
Stunted and sapless, thin and low ; 
By many a mountain stream he pass'd, 
From the tall cliffs in tumult cast. 
Dashing to foam their waters dun, 
And sparkling in the summer sun. 
Round his gray head the wild curlew 
In many a fearless circle flew. 
0"er chasms he pass'd, where fractures wide 
Craved wary eye and ample stride ; ^- 
He cross'd his brow beside the stone 
Where Druids erst heard victims groan, 
And at the cairns upon the wild, 
O'er many a heathen hero piled, 
He breathed a timid prayer for those 
Who died ere Shiloh's sun arose. 
Beside Macfarlane's Cross he staid, 
There told his hours within the shade, 
And at the stream his thirst allay'd. 
Thence onward journeying, slowly still, 
As evening closed he reach'd the hill, 
Where, rising through the woodland green, 
Old Brodick's gothic towers were seen, 
From Hastings, late their English lord, 
Douglas had won them by the sword. ^^ 
1'be sun that sunk behind the isle, 
New tinged them with a parting smile. 



But though the beams of light decay, 
'Twas bustle all in Brodick-Bay. 
The Bruce's followers crowd the shore, 
And boats and barges some unmoor, 
Some raise the sail, some seize the oar ; 
Their eyes oft turn'd where glimmer'd far 
What might have seem'd an early star 
On heaven's blue arch, save that its light 
Was all too flickering, fierce, and bright. 
Far distant in the south, the ray 
Shone pale amid retiring day 

But as, on Carrick shore, 
Dim seen in outline faintly blue. 
The shades of evening closer drew. 

It kindled more and more. 
The monk's slow steps now press the sands. 
And now amid a scene he stands, 

Full strange to churchman's eye ; 
Warriors, who, arming for the fight, 
Rivet and clasp their harness light, 
knd twinkling spears, and axes bright, 

And helmets flashing higli. 



Oft, too, with unaccnstom'd ears, 
A 'anguage much unmeet he hears,^ 

While, hastening all on board, 
As stormy as the swelling surge 
That mix'd its roar, the leaders urge 
Their followers to the ocean verge, 

With many a haughty word. 

VIII. 

Through that wild throng the Father pass'd, 

And reach'd the Royal Bruce at last, 

He leant against a stranded boat. 

That the approaching tide must float, 

And counted every rippling wave. 

As higher yet her sides they lave, 

And oft the distant fire he eyed, 

And closer yet his hauberk tied. 

And loosen'd in its sheath his brand. 

Edward and Lennox were at hand, 

Do?iglas and Ronald had the care 

The soldiers to the barks to share. — 

The Monk approach'd and homage paid ; 

" And art thou come," King Robert said, 

" -So far to bless us ere we part ? " — 

— " My Liege, and with a loyal heart I — 

But other charge I have to tell," — 

And ipoke the best of Isabel. 

— " Now by Saint Giles," the monarch cried 

" This moves me much ! this morning tide, 

I sent the stripling to Saint Bride, 

With my commandment there to bide."— 

— " Thither he came the portress show'd. 

But there, my Liege, made brief abode." 

IX. 

" 'Twas 1," said Edward, " found employ 

Of nobler import for the boy. 

Deep pondering in my anxious mind, 

A fitting messenger to find, 

To bear thy written mandate o'er 

To Cuthbert on the Carrick shore, 

I chanced, at early dawn, to pass 

The chapel gate to snatch a mass, 

I found tiie stripling on a tomb 

Low-seated, weeping for the doom 

That gave his youth to convent gloom. 

I told mv purpose, and his eyes 

Flashed joyful at the glad surprise. 

He bounded to the skiff, the sail 

Was spread before a prosperous gale, 

And well my charge he hath obey'd ; 

For, see I the ruddy signal made, 

That Clifford, with his merry-men all. 

Guards carelessly our father's hall. — 

X. 

" O wild of thought, and hard of heart 1" 
Answered the Monarch, " on a part 



^- 






SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Of such deep danger to employ 
A mute, an orphan, and a boy ! 
Unfit for flight, unfit for strife, 
Without a tongue to plead for hfe ! 
Now, were my right restored by Heaven, 
Edward, my crown I would have given, 
Ere, thrust on such adventure wild, 
I perill'd thus the helpless child." — 
— Offended half, and half submiss, 
" Brother and Liege, of blame like this." 
Edward replied, " I little dream'd. 
A stranger messenger, I deem'd, 
Might safest seek the beadsman's cell, 
Where all thy squires are known so well. 
Noteless his presence, sharp his sense, 
His imperfection his defence. 
If seen, none can his errand guess ; 
If ta'en, his words no tale express — 
Methinks, too, yonder beacon's shine 
Might expiate greater fault than mine." — 
" Rash," said King Robert, " was the deed- 
But it is done — Embark with speed ! — 
Good Father, say to Isabel 
How this unhappy chance befell ; 
If well we thrive on yonder shore, 
Soon shall my care her page restore. 
Our greeting to our sister bear, 
And think of us in mass and prayer." 



" Aye ! " said the Priest, " while this poor 

hand 
Can chalice raise or cross command, 
While my old voice has accents' use, 
Can Augustin forget the Bruce 1 " 
Then to his side Lord Ronald press'd. 
And whisper'd, " Bear thou this request. 
That when by Bruce's side I fight, 
For Scotland's crown and freedom's right. 
The princess grace her knight to bear 
Some token of her favoring care ; 
It shall be shown where England's best 
May shrink to see it on my crest. 
And for the boy — since weighter care 
For royal Bruce the times prepare. 
The helpless youth is Ronald's charge. 
His couch my plaid, his fence my targe." 
' He ceased ; for many an eager hand 
Had urged the barges from the strand. 
Their number w.is a score and ten. 
They bore thrice threescore chosen men. 
With such small force did Bruce at last 
The die for death or empire cast 1 

XII. 
Now on the darkening main afloat. 
Ready and mann'd rocks every boat 1 



Beneath their oars the ocean's might 
Was dash'd lo sparks of glimmering light, 
Faint and mere fainl, as off they bore, 
Their armor glanced against the shore 
And, mingled with the dashing tide. 
Their murmuring voices distant died. — 
" God speed them ! " said the Priest, as 

dark 
On distant billows glides each bark ; 
" O Heaven ! when swords for freedom shine, 
And monarch's right, the cause is thine 1 
Edge doubly every patriot blow ! 
Beat down the banners of the foe ! 
And be it to the nations known, 
That Victory is from God alone ! " 
As up the hill his path he drew. 
He turn'd his blessings to renew. 
Oft turn'd, till on the darken'd coast 
All traces of their course were lost ; 
Then slowly bent to Brodick tower, 
To shelter for the evening hour. 



In night the fairy prospects sink. 
Where Cumray's isles witii verdant link 
Close the fair entrance of the Clyde ; 
The woods of Bute, no more descried, 
Are gone — and on the placid sea 
The rowers ply their task with glee. 
While hands that knightly lances bore 
Impatient aid the laboring oar. 
The half-faced moon shone dim and pale. 
And glanced against the whiten'd sail ; 
But on that ruddy beacon-light 
Each steersman kept the helm aright, 
And oft, for such the King's command. 
That all at once might reach the strand, 
From boat to boat loud shout and hail 
Warn'd them to crowd or slacken sail. 
South and by west the armada bore, 
And near at length the Carrick shore. 
As less and less the distance grows, 
High and more high the beacon rose ; 
The light, that seem'd a twinkling star, 
Now blazed portentous, fierce, and far. 
Dark-red the heaven above it glow'd, 
Dark-red the sea beneath it flow'd. 
Red rose the rocks on ocean's brim. 
In blood-red light her islets swim ; 
Wild scream the dazzled sea-fowl gave, 
Dropp'd from their crags on plashing wave; 
The deer to distant covert drew, 
The black-cock deem'd it day, and crew. 
Like some tall castle given to flame. 
O'er half the land the lustre came. 







THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



289 



" Now, good my Liege, and brother sage, 
What think ye of mine elfin page? " — 
" Row on ! " the noble King replied, 
" We'll learn the truth whate'er betide ; 
Yet sure the beadsman and the child 
Could ne'er have waked that beacon wild." 



With that the boats approach'd the land, 
But Edward's grounded on the sand ; 
The eager Knight leap'd in the sea 
Waist-deep, and first on shore was he, 
Though every barge's hardy band 
Contended which should gain the land, 
When that strange light, which, seen afar, 
Seem'd steady as the polar star, 
Now, like a prophet's fiery chair, 
Seem'd travelling the realms of air. 
Wide o'er the sky the splendor glows, 
As that portentous meteor rose ; 
Helm, axe, and falchion glitter'd bright, 
And in the red and dusky light 
His comrade's face each warrior saw, 
Nor marvell'd it was pale with awe. 
Then high in air the beams were lost, 
And darkness sunk upon the coast. — 
Ronald to Heaven a prayer address'd, 
And Douglas cross'd his dauntless breast ; 
" Saint James protect us ! '' Lennox cried, 
But reckless Edward spoke aside, 
" Deem'st thou, Kirkpatrick, in that flame, 
Red Comyn's angry spirit came, 
Or would thy dauntless heart endure 
Once more to make assurance sure .' " 
"Hush! "said the Bruce, " we soon shall 

know, 
If this be sorcerer's empty show, 
Or stratagem of southern foe. 
The moon shines out — upon the sand 
Let every leader rank his band." 



Faintly the moon's pale beams supply 

That ruddy light's unnatural dye ; 

The dubious cold reflection lay 

On the wet sands and quiet bay. 

Beneath the rocks King Robert drew 

His scatter'd files to order due, 

Till shield compact and serried spear 

In tiie cool light shone blue and clear. 

Then down a path that sought the tide, 

That speechless page was seen to glide ; 

He knelt him lowly on the sand, 

And gave a scroll to Robert's hand. 

" A torch," the Monarch cried, " What ho 1 

Now shall we Cuthbert's tidings know." 



But evil news the letters bare, 

The Clifford's force was strong and ware. 

Augmented, too, that very morn, 

By mountaineers who came with Lorn. 

Long harrow'd by oppressor's hand. 

Courage and faith had fled the land, 

And over Carrick, dark and deep, 

Had sunk dejection's iron sleep. — 

Cuthbert had seen that beacon-flame, 

Unwitting from what source it came. 

Doubtful of perilous event, 

Edward's mute messenger he sent. 

If Bruce deceived should venture o'er, 

To warn him from the fatal shore. 



As round the torch the leaders crowd, 
Bruce read these chilling news aloud. 
" What counsel, nobles, have we now t — 
To ambush us in greenwood bough, 
And take the chance which fate may send 
To bring our enterprise to end. 
Or shall we turn us to the main 
As exiles, and embark again ? " — 
Answer'd fierce Edward, " Hap what may, 
In Carrick, Carrick's Lord must stay. 
I would not minstrels told the tale, 
Wildfire or meteor made us quail." — 
Answer'd the Douglas, " If my Liege 
May win yon walls by storm or siege, 
Then were each brave and patriot heart 
Kindled of new for loyal part." — 
Answer'd Lord Ronald, " Not for shame 
Would I that aged Torquil came, 
And found, for all our empty boast. 
Without a blow we fled the coast. 
I will not credit that this land, 
So famed for warlike heart and hand. 
The nurse of Wallace and of Bruce, 
Will long with tyrants hold a truce." — 
" Prove we our fate — the brunt we'll bide ! '■ 
So Boyd and Haye and Lennox cried ; 
So said, so vow'd, the leaders all ; 
So Bruce resolved : " And in my hall 
Since the Bold Southern make their home, 
The hour of payment soon shall come, 
When with a rough and rugged host 
Clifford may reckon to his cost. 
Meantime, through well-known bosk and 

dell, 
I'll lead where we may shelter well." 



Now ask you whence that wondrous light. 
Whose fairy glow beguiled their sight 1 — 
It ne'er was known ^s — yet gray-hair'd eld 
A superstitious credence held. 





290 



SCO TT'S POE TIC A L WORKS. 



That never did a mortal hand 
Wake its broad glare on Carrick strand ; 
Nay, and that on the self-same night 
When Bruce cross'd o'er, still gleams the 

light. 
Yearly it gleams o'er mount and moor, 
And glittering wave and crimson'd shore — 
But whether beam celestial lent 
By Heaven to aid the King's descent, 
Or fire hell-kindled from beneath, 
To lure him to defeat and death. 
Or were it but some meteor strange, 
Of such as oft through midnight range. 
Startling the traveller late and lone, 
I know not — and it ne'er was known. 

XVIII. 

Now up the rocky pass they drew, 
And Ronald, to his promise true, 
Still made his arm the stripling's stay, 
To aid hmi on the rugged way. 
" Now cheer thee, simple Amadine t 
Why throbs that silly heart of thine ? " — 
— That name the pirates to their slave 
(In Gaelic 'tis the Cliangeling) gave — 
■'' Dost thou not rest thee on my arm t 
Do not my plaid-folds hold thee warm ' 
Hath not the wild bull's treble hide 
Tliis targe for thee and me supplied ? 
Is not Clan-Colla's sword of steel ? 
And, trembler, canst thou terror feel I 
Cheer thee, and still that throbbing heart ; 
From Ronald's guard thou shalt not part." 
— O ! many a shaft, at random sent, 
Finds mark the archer little meant ! 
And many a word, at random spoken. 
May soothe or wound a heart that's broken ! 
Half soothed, half grieved, half terrified. 
Close drew the page to Ronald's side; 
A wild delirious thrill of joy 
Was in that hour of agony, 
As up the steepy pass he strove, 
Fear, toil, and sorrow, lost in love I 



The barrier of that iron shore, 
The rock's steep ledge, is now climb'd o'er ; 
And from the castle's distant wall, 
From tower to tower the warders call : 
The sound swings over land and sea, 
And marks a watchful enemy. — 
They gain'd the Chase, a wide domain 
Left for the Castle's sylvan reign, 
(Seek not the scene — the axe, the plough. 
The boor's dull fence, have marr'd it now,) 
But then, soft swopt in velvet green 
The plain with many a glade between, 



Whose tangled alleys far invade 
The depth of the brown forest shade. 
Here tiie tall fern obscured the lawn, 
Fair shelter for the sportive fawn. 
There, tufted close with copsewood green. 
Was many a swelling hillock seen ; 
And all around was verdure meet 
For pressure of the fairies' feet. 
The glossy holly loved the park, 
The yew-tree lent its shadow dark. 
And many an old oak, worn and bare. 
With all its shiver'd boughs, was there. 
Lovely between, the moonbeams fell 
On lawn and hillock, glade and dell. 
The gallant Monarch sigh'd to see 
These glades so loved in childhood free. 
Bethinking that, as outlaw now, 
He ranged beneath the forest bough. 

XX. 
Fast o'er the moonlight Chase they sped, 
Well knew the band that measured tread, 
When, in retreat or in advance, 
The serried warriors move at once ; 
And evil were the luck, if dawn 
Descried them on the open lawn. 
Copses they traverse, brooks they cross, 
Strain up the bank and o'er the moss. 
From the exhausted page's brow 
Cold drops of toil are streaming now ; 
With effort faint and lengthen'd pause, 
His weary step the stripling draws. 
" Nay, droop not yet i " the warrior said ; 
" Come, let me give thee ease and aid ! 
Strong are mine arms, and little care 
A weight so slight as thine to bear. — 
What! wilt though not .'' — capricious boy! 
Then thine own limbs and strength emploj 
Pass but this night, and pass thy care, 
I'll place thee with a lady fair. 
Where thou shalt tune thy lute to tell 
How Ronald loves fair Isabel ! " 
Worn out, dishearten'd,and dismay'd, 
Here Armadine let go the plaid ; 
His trembling limbs their aid refuse, 
He sunk among the midnight dews I 

XXI. 

What may be done ;— the night is gone 

The Bruce's band moves swiftly on — 

Eternal shame, if at the brunt 

Lord Ronald grace not battle's front I 

" See yonder oak, within whose trunk 

Decay a darken'd cell hath sunk ; 

Enter and rest thee there a space, 

Wrapt in my plaid thy limbs, thy face 

I will not be, believe me, far ; 

But must not quit the ranks of war. 






THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



J91 



Well will I mark the bosky bourne, 

And soon, to guard thee hence, return. — 

Nay, weep not so, thou simple boy ! 

But sleep in peace, and wake in joy." 

In sylvan lodging close bestow'd, 

He placed the page, and onward strode 

With strength put forth, o'er moss and 

brook. 
And soon the marching band o'ertook. 



Thus strangely left, long sobb'd and wept 

The page, till, wearied out, he slept — 

A rough voice waked his dream — " Nay, 

here. 
Here by this thicket, pass'd the deer — 
Beneath that oak old Ryno staid — 
What have we here ? — a Scottish plaid. 
And in its folds a stripling laid ? — 
Come forth ! thy name and business tell ! — 
What, silent? — then I guess thee well. 
The spy that sought old Cuthbert's cell, 
Wafted from Arran yester morn — 
Come, comrades, we will straight return. 
Our Lord may choose the rack should 

teach 
To this young lurcher use of speech. 
Thy bow-string till I bind him fast." — 
" Nay, but he weeps and stands aghast ; 
Unbound we'll lead him, fear it not ; 
'Tis a fair stripling, though a Scot," 
The hunters to the castle sped, 
And there the hapless captive led. 



Stout Clifford in the castle-court 
Prepared him for the morning sport ; 
And now with Lorn held deep discourse. 
Now gave command for hound and horse. 
War-steeds and palfreys paw'd the ground 
And many a deer-dog howl'd around. 
To Amr.dine, Lorn's well-known word 
Replying to that Southern Lord, 
Mix'd with this clanging din. might seem 
The phantasm of a fever'd dream. 
The tone upon his ringing ears 
Came like the sound which fancy hears. 
When in rude waves or roaring winds 
Some words of woe tlie muser finds, 
Until more loudly and more near. 
Their speech arrests the page's ear. 

XXIV. 

"And was she thus," said Clifford, " lost? 
The priest should rue it to his cost ! 
What says the monk?" — " The holy Sire 
Owns, that in masquer's quaint attire 



She sought his skiff, disguised, unknown 

To all except to huii alone. 

But, says the priest, a bark from Lorn 

Laid them aboard that very morn, 

.■\nd pirates seized her for their prey. 

He proffer'd ransom-gold to pay, 

.A,nd they agreed — but ere told o'er, 

The winds blew loud, the billows roar ; 

They sever'd, and they met no more, 

He deems — such tempest vex'd the coast - 

Ship, crew, and fugitive were lost. 

So let it be, with the disgrace 

And scandal of her lofty race ! 

Thrice better she had ne'er been born, 

Than brought her infamy on Lorn 1 " 



Lord Clifford now the captive spied ; — 

" Whom, Herbert, hast thou there ? " he 

cried. 
" A spy we seized within the Chase, 
A hollow oak his lurking-place." — 
" What tidings can the youth afford ? "- 
" He plays the mute." — " Then noose a 

cord — 
Unless brave Lorn reverse the doom 
For his plaid's sake." — "Clan-CoUa's 

loom," 
Said Lorn, whose careless glances trace 
Rather the vesture than the face, 
" Clan-Colla's dames such tartans twine; 
Wearer nor plaid claims care of mine. 
Give him, if my advice you crave. 
His own scathed oak ; and let him wave 
In air, unless, by terror wrung, 
A frank confession find his tongue. — 
Nor shall he die without his rite ; 
— Thou, Angus Roy, attend the sight, 
And give Clan-Colla's dirge thy breath, 
.\s they convey him to his death." — 
" O brother ! cruel to the last ! " 
Through the poor captive's bosom pass'd 
The thought, but, to bis purpose true, 
He said not, though he sigh'd, " Adieu 1 " 



And will he keep his purpose still. 

In sight of that last closing ill. 

When one poor breath, one single word, 

May freedom, safety, life aflord ? 

Can he resist the instinctive call. 

For life that bids us barter all ? — 

Love, strong as death, his heart hath 

steel'd, 
His nerves hath strung — he will not yield! 
Since that poor breath, that little word. 
May yield Lord Ronald to the sword. — 






292 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Clan-CoIIa's dirge is pealing wide, 

The grisly headsman's by his side ; 

Along the greenwood Chase they bend, 

And now their march has ghastly end ! 

That old and shatter'd oak "beneath, 

They destine for the place of death. 

— What thoughts are his, while all in 

vain 
His eye for aid explores the plain ? 
What thoughts, while, with a dizzy ear. 
He hears the death-prayer mutter'd near? 
And nn:st he die such deafii accurst, 
Or will that bosom-secret burst ? 
Cold on his brow breaks terror's dew, 
His trembling lips are livid blue; 
The agony of parting life 
Has naught to match that moment's strife! 

XXVII. 

But other witnesses are nigh. 

Who mock at fear, and death defy ! 

Soon as the dire lament was play'd, 

It waked the lurking ambuscade. 

The Island Lord look'd forth, and spied 

The cause, and loud in fury cried, 

"By Heaven, they lead the page to die, 

And mock me in his agony I 

They shall abye it ! " — On his arm 

Bruce laid strong grasp, "They shall not 

harm 
A ringlet of the stripling's hair ; 
But, till I give the word, forbear. 
— Douglas, lead fifty of our force 
Up yonder hollow water-course. 
And couch thee midway on the wold. 
Between the flyers and their hold: 
A spear above the copse display'd. 
Be signal of the ambush made. 
— Edward, with forty spearmen, straight 
Through yonder copse approach the gate, 
And, when thou hear'st the battle-din. 
Rush forward, and the passage win, 
Secure the drawbridge — storm the port. 
And man and guard the castle-coui t. — 
The rest move slowly forth with me, 
In shelter of the forest-tree. 
Till Douglas at his post I see." 

XXVIII. 

Like war-dogs eager to rush on, 
Compell'd to wait the signal blown, 
Hid, and scarce hid, by greenwood bough, 
Trembling with rage, stands Ronald now. 
And in his grasp his sword gleams blue, 
Soon to be dyed with deadlier hue. — 
Meanwhile the Bruce, with steady eye. 
Sees the dark death-train moving by, 



And, heedful, measures oft the space 

The Douglas and his band must trace. 

Ere they can reach their destined ground. 

Now sinks the dirge's wailing sound, 

Now cluster round the direful tree 

That slow and solemn company, 

While hymn mistuned and mutter'd 

prayer 
The victim for his tate prepare. — 
What glances o'er the greenwood shade ? 
The spear that marks the ambuscade. 
" Now, noble Chief ! I leave thee loose ; 
Upon them, Ronald ! " said the Bruce. 

XXIX. 

"The Bruce, the Bruce!" to well-known 

cry 
His native rocks and woods reply. 
"The Bruce, the Bruce!" in that dread 

word 
The knell of hundred deaths was heard. 
The astonish'd Southern gazed at first. 
Where the wild tempest was to burst, 
That waked in that presaging name. 
Before, behind, around it came 1 
Half-arm'd, surprised, on every side 
Hemm'd in, hew'd down, they bled and 

died. 
Deep in the ring the Bruce engaged, 
And fierce Clan-Colla's broadsword raged ! 
Full soon the few who fought were sped, 
Nor better was their lot who fled. 
And met, 'mid terror's wild career. 
The Douglas's redoubted spear! 
Two hundred yoemen on that morn 
The castle left, and none return. 

XXX. 

Not on their flight press'd Ronald's brand 
A gentler duty claim'd his hand. 
He raised the page, where on the plain 
His fear had sunk him with the slain : 
And twice, that morn, surprise well npar 
Betray'd the secret kept by fear ; 
Once, when, with life returning, came 
To the boy's lip Lord Ronald's name. 
And hardly recollection drown'd 
The accents in a murmuring sound : 
And once, when scarce he could resist 
The Chieftain's care to loose the vest, 
Drawn tightly o'er his laboring breast 
But then the Bruce's bugle blew, 
For martial work was yet to do. 

XXXI. 

A harder task fierce Edward waits. 
Ere signal given, the castle gates 
His fury had assail'd ; 





^ 




THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



293 



Such was his wonted reckless mood, 
Yet desperate valor of t made good, 
Even by its daring, venture rude, 

Where prudence might have fail'd. 
Upon the bridge his strength he threw, 
And struck the iron chain in two, 

By which its planks arose ; 
The warder next his axe's edge 
Struck down upon the threshold ledge, 
Twixt door and post a ghastly wedge i 

The gate they may not close. 
Well fought the Southern in the fray, 
Clifford and Lorn fought well that day. 
But stubborn Edward forced his way 

Against a hundred foes. 
Loud came the cry, " The Bruce, the 

Bruce ! " 
No hope or in defence or truce, 

Fresh combatants pour in ; 
Mai with success, and drunk with gore, 
They drive the struggling foe before. 

And ward on ward they win. 
Unsparing was the vengeful sword. 
And limbs were lopp'd and life-blood 

pour'd, 
The cry of death and conflict roar'd, 

And fearful was the din ! 
The startling horses plunged and flung, 
Clamor'd the dogs till turrets rung. 

Nor sunk the fearful cry, 
Till not a foeman was there found 
Alive, save those who on the ground 

Groan'd in their agony ! 

XXXII. 

The valiant Clifford is no more : 

On Ronald's broadsword stream'd his gore. 

But better hap had he of Lorn, 

Who, by the foemen backward borne. 

Yet gain'd with slender train the port, 

Where lay his bark beneath the fort. 

And cut the cable loose. 
Short were his shnft in that debate, 
That hour of fury and of fate. 

If Lorn encounter'd Bruce ! 
Then long and loud the victor shout 
From turret and from tower rung out, 

The rugged vaults replied ; 
And from the donjon tower on high, 
The men of Carrick may descry 
Saint Andrew's cross, in blazonry 

Of silver, waving wide ! 

XXXIII. 

The Bruce hath won his father's hall ! ^^ 
— " Welcome, brave friends and comrades all 5 

Welcome to mirth and joy ! 
The first, the last, is welcome here, 




From lord and chieftain, prince and peer, 

To this poor speechless boy. 
Great God ! once more my sire's abode 
Is mine — behold the floor I trode 

In tottering infancy ! 
And there the vaulted arch, whose sound 
Echoed my joyous shout and bound 
In boyhood, and that rung around 

To youth's unthinking glee I 
O first, to thee, all-gracious Hea-ren, 
Then to my friends, my thanks be 

given ! "— 
He paused a space, his brow he cross'd — 
Then on the board his sword he toss'd. 
Yet steaming hot ; with Southern gore 
From hilt to point 'twas crimson'd o'er. 

XXXIV. 

" Bring here," he said, " the mazers four,* 
My noble fathers loved of yore. 
Thrice let them circle round the board. 
The pledge, fair Scotland's rights restored I 
And he whose lip shall touch the wine, 
Without a vow as true as mine, 
To hold both lands and life at nought, 
Until her freedom shall be bought, — 
Be brand of a disloyal Scot, 
And lasting infamy his lot 1 
Sit, gentle friends ! our hour of glee 
Is brief, we'll spend it joyously! 
Blithest of all the sun's bright beams. 
When betwixt storm and storm he gleams. 
Well is our country's work begun, 
But more, far more, must yet be done. 
Speed messengers the country through ; 
Arouse old friends, and gather new ; 
Warn Lanark's knights to giid their mail, 
Rouse the brave sons of Teviotdale, 
Let Ettrick's archer's sharp their darts, 
The fairest forms, the truest hearts ! 
Call all, call all 1 from Reedswair-Path ! 
To the wild confines of Cape- Wrath ; 
Wide let the news through Scotland ring,— 
The Northern Eagle claps his wing 1 " 



CANTO SIXTH. 



O WHO, that shared them, ever shall for- 

The emotions of the spirit-rousing time. 
When breathless in the mart the couriers 

met. 
Early and late, at evening and at prime ; 



* The 7nazers/our, large drinking cups, or 
goblets. 






294 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



When the loud cannon and the merry 

cliime 
Hail'd news on news, as field on field was 

won ! 
When Hope, long doubtful, soar'dat length 

sublime, 
And our glad eyes, awake as day begun, 
VVatch'd Joy's broad banner rise, to meet 

the rising sun 1 

O these were hours, when thrilling joy re- 
paid 
A long, long course of darkness, doubts, 

and fears ! 
The heart-sick faintness of the hoj>e de- 

lay'd. 
The waste, the woe, the bloodshed, and 

the tears, 
That track'd with terror twenty rolling 

years. 
All was forgot in that blithe jubilee ! 
Her downcast eye even pale Affliction 

rears, 
To sigh a thankful prayer, amid the gleej 
That hail'd the Despot's fall, and peace and 

liberty 1 

Such news o'er Scotland's iiills triumph- 
ant rode. 

When 'gainst the invaders turn'd the bat- 
tle's scale, 

When, Bruce's banner had victorious 
flow'd 

O'er Loudoun's mountain, and in Ury's 
vale ; ^' 

When English blood oft deluged Douglas- 
dale,38 

And fiery Edward routed stout St. 
John,39 

When Randolph's war-cry swell'd the 
Southern gale,-*" 

And many a fortress, town, and tower, was 
won, 
And Fame still sounded forth fresh deeds 
of glory done. 

II. 

Blithe tidings flew from baron's tower. 
To peasant's cot, to forest bower, 
And waked the solitary cell, 
Where lone St. Bride's recluses dwell. 
Princess no more, fair Isabel, 

A vot'ress of the order now, 
Say, did the rule that bid thee wear 
Dim veil and woollen scapulaire. 
And reft thy locks of dark-brown hair, 

That stern and rigid vow. 



D*d it condemn the transport high, 
Which glisten'd in thy watery eye. 
When minstrel or when palmer told 
Each fresh exploit of Bruce the bold ? — 
And whose the lovely form, that shares 
Thy anxious hopes, thy fears, thy prayelts 
No sister she of convent shade ! 
So say these locks in lengthen'd braid, 
So say the blushes and the sighs, 
The tremors that unbidden rise. 
When, mingled with the Bruce's fame, 
The brave Lord Ronald's praises came 

III. 
Believe, his father's castle won, 
And his bold enterprise begun. 
That Bruce's earliest cares restore 
The speechless page to Arran's shore : 
Nor think that long the quaint disguise 
Conceal'd her from her sister's eyes ; 
And sister-like in love they dwell 
In that lone convent's silent cell. 
There Bruce's slow assent allows 
Fair Isabel the veil and vows ; 
A nd there, her sex's dress regain'd. 
The lovely Maid of Lorn remain'd. 
Unnamed, unknown, vfhile Scotland far 
Resounded with the din of war ; 
And many a month, and many a day, 
In calm seclusion wore away 

IV. 

These days, these months, to years had 

worn. 
When tidings of high weight were borne 

To that lone island's shore ; 
Of all the Scottish conquests made 
By the First Edward's ruthless blade. 

His son retain'd no more. 
Northward of Tweed, but Stirling's towers, 
Beleaguer'd b. King Robert's powers •, 

And they took term of truce,'" 
If England's King should not relieve 
The siege ere John the Baptist's eve, 

To yield them to tlie Bruce. 
England was roused — on every side 
Courier and post and herald hied, 

To summon prince and peer. 
At Berwick-bounds to meet their Liege, 
Prepared to raise lair Stirling's siege. 

With buckler, brand, and spear. 
The term was nigh — they muster'd fast. 
By beacon and by bugle-blast 

Forth marshall'd for the field; 
There rode each knight of noble name, 
There England's hardy archers came, 
The land they trode seem'd all on flame. 

With banner, blade, and shield I 




-w 





THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



295 



And not <'amed England's powers alone, 
Renovvn'd in arms, the summons own ; 

For Neustria's knights obey'd, 
Gascogne hath lent her horsemen good, 
And Cambria, but of late subdued, 
Sent forth her mountain multitude,*^ 
And Connoght pour'd from waste and 

wood 
Her hundred tribes, whose sceptre rude 

Dark Eth O'Connor sway'd.'*^ 



Right to devoted Caledon 

The storm of war rolls slowly on, 

With menace deep and dread ; 
So the dark clouds, with gathering power, 
Suspend awhile the threaten'd shower. 
Till every peak and summit lower 

Round the pale pilgrim's head. 
Not with such pilgrim's startled eye 
King Robert mark'd the tempest nigh 1 

Resolved the brunt to bide, 
His royal summons warn'd the land, 
That all who own'd their King's com- 
mand 
Should instant take the spear and brand. 

To combat at his side. 
.0 who may tell the sons of fame. 
That at King Robert's bidding came, 

To battle for the right ! 
From Cheviot to the shores of Ross, 
From Solway-Sands to Marshal's-Moss, 

All boun'd them for the fight. 
Such news the royal courier tells. 
Who came to rouse dark Arran's dells ■ 
But farther tidings must the ear 
Of Isabel in secret hear. 
These in her cloister walk, next morn, 
Thus shared she with the Maid of Lorn. 



" My Edith, can I tell how dear 
Our intercourse of hearts sincere 

Hath been to Isabel ? — 
Judge then the sorrow of my heart, 
When 1 must say the words, We part ! 

The cheerless ccnvent-cell 
Was not, sweet maiden, made for thee ; 
Go thou where thy vocation free 

On happier fortunes fell. 
Nor, Edith, judge thyself betray'd. 
Though Robert knows that Lorn's high 

Maid 
And his poor silent page were one. 
Versed in the fickle lieart of man. 
Earnest and anxious hath he look'd 
How Ronald's heart the message brook'd 



That gave hun, with her last farewell, 
The charge of Sister Isabel, 
To think upon thy better right. 
And keep the faith his promise plight. 
Forgive him for thy sister's sake. 
At first if vain repinings wake- 
Long since that mood is gone • 
Now dwells he on thy juster claims, 
And oft his breach of faith he blames- 
Forgive him for thine own ! '' 



" No ! never to Lord Ronald's bower 

Will I again as paramour " 

" Nay, hush thee, too impatient maid, 
Until my final tale be said ! — 
The good King Robert would engage 
Edith once more his elfin page. 
By her own heart, and her own eye, 
Her lovers penitence to try — 
Safe in his royal charge, and free, 
Should such thy final purpose be, 
Again unknown to seek the cell, 
And live and die with Isabel." 
Thus spoke the maid — King Robert's eye 
Might have some glance of policy ; 
Dunstaffnage had the monarch ta'en, 
.'\nd Lorn had own'd King Robert's reign, 
Her brother had to England fled. 
And there in banishment was dead ; 
Ample, through exile, death, and flight, 
O'er tower and land was Edith's right ; 
This ample right o'er tower and land 
Were safe in Ronald's faithful hand. 



Embarrass'd eye and blushing cheek 
Pleasure, and shame, and fear bespeak, 
Yet much the reasoning Edith made ! 
" Her sister's faith she must upbraid, 
Who gave such secret, dark and dear, 
In counsel to another's ear. 
Why shoidd she leave the peaceful cell ?- 
How should she part with Isabel ? — 
How wear that strange attire agen ? — 
How risk herself 'midst martial men ? — 
.•\nd how be guarded on the way ? — 
At least she might entreat delay." 
Kind Isabel, with secret smile. 
Saw and forgave the maiden's wile, 
Reluctant to be thought to move 
At the first call of truant love. 



Oh, blame her not ! — when zephyrs wake, 
The aspen's trembling leaves must shake; 



^' 






296 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



When beams the sun through April's 

shower, 
It needs must bloom, the violet flower ; 
And Love, howe'er the maiden strive, 
Must with reviving hope revive ! 
A thousand soft excuses came, — 
To plead his cause 'gainst virgin shame. 
Pledged by their sires in earliest youth, 
He had her plighted faith and truth — 
Then, 'twas her Liege's strict command. 
And she, beneath his royal hand, 
A ward in person and in land : — 
And, last, she was resolved to stay 
Only brief space — one little day — 
Close hidden in her safe disguise 
From all, but most from Ronald's eyes — 
But once •'o see him more ! — nor blame 
Her wish — to hear him name her name ! — 
Then, to bear back to solitude 
The thought he had his falsehood rued ! 
But Isabel, who long had seen 
Her pallid cheek and pensive mien. 
And well herself the cause might know, 
Though innocent, of Edith's woe, 
Joy'd, generous, that revolving time 
Gave means to expiate the crime. 
High glow'd her bosom as she said, 
' Well shall her sufferings be repaid !" 
Now came the parting hour — a band 
From Arran's mountains left the land ; 
Theii chief, Fitz-Louis, had the care 
The speechless Amadine to bear 
To Bruce, with honor, as behoved 
To page the monarch dearly loved. 

X. 

The King had deem'd the maiden bright 

Should reach him long before the fight. 

But storms and fate her course delay : 

It was on eve of battle-day : 

When o'er the Gillie's-hiil she rode. 

The landscape like a furnace glow'd. 

And far as e'er the eye was borne, 

The lances waved like autumn-corn. 

In battles four beneath their eye, 

The forces of King Robert he. 

And one below the hill was laid. 

Reserved for rescue and for aid ; 

And three, advanced, form'd vaward-line, 

'Twixt Bannock's brook and Ninian's 

shrine. 
Detach'd was each, yet each so nigh 
As well might mutuai aid supply. 
Beyond, the -Southern host appears, 
A boundless wilderness of spears, 
Whose verge or rear the anxious eye 
Strove far, but strove in vain, to spy. 



Thick flashing in the evening beam, 
Glaives, lances, bills, and banners gleam ; 
.A.nd where the heaven join'd with the hiU 
Was distant armor flashing still. 
So wide, so far, the boundless host 
Seem'd in the blue horizon lost. 

XI. 

Down from the hill the maiden pass'd, 
At the wild show of war aghast ; 
And traversed first the rearward host, 
Reserved for aid where needed most. 
The men of Carrick and of Ayr, 
Lennox and Lanark, too, v^ferc there, 

And all the western land ; 
With these the valiant of the Isles 
Beneath their chieftains rank'd their files. 

In many a plaided band. 
There, in the centre, proudly raised. 
The Brace's royal standard blazed, 
And there Lord Ronald's banner bore 
A galley driven by sail and oar. 
A wild, yet pleasing contrast, made 
Warrior's in mail and plate array'd, 
With the plumed bonnet and the plaid 

By these Hebrideans worn ; 
But O ! unseen for three long years, 
Dear was the garb of mountaineers 

To the fair Maid of Lorn ! 
For one she look'd — but he was far 
Busied amid the ranks of war — 
Yet with affection's troubled eye 
She mark'd his banner boldly fly, 
Gave on the countless foe a glance, 
And thought on battle's desperate chance. 

XII. 

To centre of the vaward-line 
Fitz-Louis guided .'\madine. 
Arm'dall on foot, that host appears 
A serried mass of glimmering spears. 
There stood the Marchers' warlike band, 
The warriors there of Lodon's land ; 
Ettrick and Liddell bent the yew, 
A band of archers fierce, though few ; 
The men of Nith and Annan's vale, 
And the bold Spears of Teviotdale ; — 
The dauntless Douglas these obey. 
And the young Stuart's gentle sway. 
North-eastward by Saint Ninian's shrine^ 
Beneath fierce Randolph's charge, combine 
The warriors whom the hardy North 
From Tay to Sutherland sent forth. 
The rest of Scotland's war-array 
With Edward Bruce to westward lay, 
Where Bannock, with his broken bank 
And deep ravine, protects their flank. 
B'ihind them, screen'd by sheltering wood. 




i s 




" Such slrengtli upon the blow wns put 
The helmet crash'd like hazel-nut." 

The Lord of the hies, canto vi. 15. 



j£ 




THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



297 



The gallant Keith, Lord Marshal, stood : 
His men-at-arms bear mace and lance, 
And plumes that wave, and helms that glance. 
Thus fair divided by the King, 
Centre, and right, and left-ward wing, 
Composed his front ; nor distant far 
Was strong reserve to aid the war. 
And 'twas to front of this array, 
Her guide and Edith made their way. 



Here must they pause ; for, in advance 

As far as one might pitch a lance, 

The monarch rode along the van,''^ 

The foe's approaching force to scan, 

His line to marshal and to range, 

And ranks to square, and fronts to change. 

Alone he rode — from head to heel 

Sheathed in his ready arms of steel ; 

Nor mounted yet on war-horse wight. 

But, till more near the shock of fight, 

Reining a palfrey low and light. 

A diadem of gold was set 

Above his bright steel basi'net. 

And clasp'd within its glittering twine 

Was seen the glove of Argentine ; 

Truncheon or leading staff he lacks, 

Bearing, instead, a battle-axe. 

He ranged his soldiers for the fight. 

Accoutred thus, in open sight 

Of either host. — Three bowshots far, 

Paused the deep front of England's war, 

And rested on their arms awhile. 

To close and rank their warlike file. 

And hold high council, if that night 

Should view the strife, or dawning light. 

XIV. 

O gay, yet fearful to behold. 

Flashing with steel and rough with gold. 

And bristled o'er with bills and spears. 
With plumes and pennons waving fair, 
Was that bright battle-front ! for there 

Rode England's King and peers : 
And who, that saw that monarch ride. 
His kingdom battled by his side. 
Could then his direful doom foretell ! — 
Fair was his seat in knightly selle. 
And in his sprightly eye was set 
Some spark of the Plantagenet. 
Though light and wandering was his glance. 
It flash'd at sight of shield and lance. 
" Know'st thou," he said, " De Argentine, 
Yon knight who marshals thus their line ? " — 
" The tokens on his helmet tell 
The Bruce, my Liege : I know him well." — 



" And shall the audacious traitor brave 
The presence where our banners wave ? " — 
" So please my Liege," said Argentine, 
" Were he but horsed on steed like mine, 
To give him fair and knightly chance, 
I would adventure forth my lance." — 
" In battle-day," the King replied, 
" Nice tourney rules are set aside. 
— Still must the rebel dare our wrath ? 
Set on him — sweep him from our path ! "— 
And, at King Edward's signal, soon 
Dash'd from the ranks Sir Henry Boune. 

XV. 

Of Hereford's high blood he came, 

A race renown'd for knightly fame. 

He burn'd before his Monarch's eye 

To do some deed of chivalry. 

He spurr'd his steed, he couch'd his lance, 

And darted on the Bruce at once. 

— As motionless as rocks, that bide 

The wrath of the advancing tide. 

The Bruce stood fast. — Each breast beat 

high. 
And dazzled was each gazing eye — 
The heart had hardly time to think, 
The eyelid scarce had time to wink, 
While on the King, like flash of flame, 
Spurr'd to full speed the war-horse came 1 
The partridge may the falcon mock. 
If that slight palfrey stand the shock — 
But, swerving from the knight's career. 
Just as they met, Bruce shunn'd the spear, 
Onward the baffled warrior bore 
His course — but soon his course was o'er I— 
High in his stirrups stood the King, 
And gave his battle-axe the swing. 
Right on De Boune, the whiles he pass'd, 
Fell that stern dint — the first — the last \— 
Such strength upon the blow was put. 
The helmet crash' d like hazel-nut ; 
The axe-shaft, with its brazen clasp, 
Was shiver'd to the gauntlet grasp. 
Springs from the blow the startled horse, 
Drops to the plain the lifeless corse ; 
— First of that fatal field, how soon, 
How sudden, fell the fierce De Boune ' 

XVI. 

One pitying glance the Monarch sped, 
Where on the field his foe lay dead ; 
Then gently turn'd his palfrey's head. 
And, pacing back his sober way, 
Slowly he gain'd his own array. 
There round their King the leaders crowd, 
And blame his recklessness aloud. 
That risk'd 'gainst each adventurous spear, 
A life so valued and so dear. 







298 



SCOTT'S POETICAL IVORKS. 



His broken weapon's shaft survey 'd 
The King, and careless answer made, — 
" My loss may pay my folly's tax ; 
I've broke my trusty battle-axe." 
'Twas then Fitz-Louis, bending low, 
Did Isabel's commission show; 
Edith, disguised at distance stands, 
And hides her blushes with her hands. 
The Monarch's brow has changed its hue, 
Away the gory axe he threw, 
While to the seeming page he drew. 

Clearing war's terrors from his eye 
Her hand with gentle ease he took, 
With such a kind protecting look, 

As to a weak and timid boy 
Might speak, that elder brother's care 
And elder brother's love were there. 



'* Fear not," he said, " young Amadine 1 " 
Then whisper'd, " Still that name be thine. 
Fate plays her wonted fantasy, 
Kind Amadine, with thee and me, 
And sends thee here in doubtful hour. 
But soon we are beyond her power ; 
For on this chosen battle-plain, 
Victor or vanquish'd, I remain. 
Do thou to yonder hill repair ; 
The followers of our host are there. 
And all who may not weapons bear. — 
Fitz-Louis, have him in thy care. — 
Joyful we meet, if all go well ; 
If not, in Arran's holy cell 
Thou must take part with Isabel ; 
For brave Lord Ronald, too, hath sworn, 
Not to regain the Maid of Lorn, 
(The bliss on earth he covets most,) 
Would he forsake his battle-post. 
Or shun the fortune that may fall 
To Bruce, to Scotland, and to all. — 
But, hark ! some news these trumpets tell ; 
Forgive my haste — farewell ! — farewell 1 " — 
And in a lower voice he said, 
" Be of good cheer — farewell, sweet 
maid ! " — 

XVIII, 

" What train of dust, with trumpet-sound 
And glimmering spear, is wheeling round 
Our leftward flank ? " — the Monarch cried, 
To Moray's Earl who rode beside. 
" Lo 1 round thy station pass the foes ! 
Randolph, thy wreath has lost a rose;" 
The Earl his visor closed, and said, 
" My wreath shall bloom, or life shall 
fade.— 



Follow, my houseliokl I " — And they go 
Like lightning on the advancing foe. 
" My Liege," said noble Douglas then, 
" Earl Randolph has but one to ten : 
Let me go forth his band to aid 1 " — 
— " Stir not. The error he hath made, 
Let him amend it as he may ; 
I will not weaken mine array." 
Then loudly rose the conflict-cry. 
And Douglas's brave heart svvell'd high,— 
" My Liege," he said, "witli patient ear 
I must not Moray's death-knell hear 1 "'— 
" Then go — but speed thee back again." - 
Forth sprung the Douglas with his train : 
But, when they won a rising hill. 
He bade his followers hold thena still. — 
" See, see ! the routed Southern fly 1 
The Earl hath won the victory. 
Lo 1 where yon steeds run masterless, 
His banner towers above the press. 
Rein up ; our presence would impair 
The fame we come too l.ite to share." 
Back to the host the Douglas rode, 
And soon glad tidings are abroad. 
That, Dayncourt by stout Randolph slain, 
His followers fled with loosen'd rein. — 
That skirmish closed the busy day, 
And couch'd in battle's prompt array, 
Each army on their weapons lay. 

XIX. 

It was a night of lovely June, 

High rode in cloudless blue the moon, 

Demayet, smiled beneath her ray ; 
Old Stirling's towers arose in light, 
And twined in links of silver bright, 

Her winding river lay. 
Ah, gentle planet ! other sight 
Shall greet thee next returning night. 
Of broken arms and banners tore, 
And marshes dark with human gore, 
And piles of slaughter'd men and horse, 
And Forth that floats the frequent corse, 
And many a wounded wretch to plain 
Beneath thy silver light in vain ! 
But now, from England's host, the cry 
Thou hear'st of wassail revelry. 
While from the Scottish legions pass 
The murmur'd prayer, the early mass : — 
Here, numbers had presumption given ; 
There, bands o'er-matched sought aid from 
Heaven. 

XX. 

On Gillie's hill, whose height commands 
The battle-field, fair Edith stands. 
With serf and jxigc unfit for war. 
To eye the conflict from afar. 






h 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



299 



! with what doubtful agony- 
She sees the dawning tint the sky ! — 
Now on the Ochils gleams the sun, 
And glistens now Demayet dun ; 

Is it the lark that carols shiill ? 
Is it the bittern's early hum? 

No ! — distant, but mcreasing still. 

The trumpet's sound swells up the hill. 
With the deep murmur of the drum. 
Responsive from the Scottish host. 
Pipe-clang and bugle sound were toss'c,'*^ 
His breast and brow each soldier cross'd, 

And started from the ground ; 
Arm'd and array'd for mstant fight, 
Rose archer, spearman, squire, and knight, 
And in the pomp of battle bright 

The dread battalia frown 'd. 



Now onward, and in open view. 

The countless ranks of England drew. 

Dark rolling like the ocean-tide, 

When the rough west hatli chafed his 

pride, 
And his deep roar sends challenge wide 

To a]l that bars his way I 
In front the gallant archers trode, 
The men-at-arms behind them rode. 
And midmost of the phalanx broad 

The Monarch held liis sway. 
Beside him many a war-horse fumes. 
Around him waves a sea of plumes, 
Where many a knight in battle known, 
And some who spurs had first braced on, 
And deem'd that fight should see them 
won, 

King Edward's bests obey. 
De Argentine attends his side. 
With stout De Valence, Pembroke's 

pride. 
Selected champions from th; train, 
To wait upon his bridle-rein. 
Upon the Scottish foe he gazed — 
^At once, before his sight amazed, 

Sunk banner, spear, and shield; 
Each weapon-point is downward sent, 
Each warrior to the ground is bent. 
" The rebels, Argentine, repent! 

For pardon they have kneel'd. " — 
' Aye ! — but they bend to other powers. 
And other pardon sue than ours ! 
See where yon bare-foot Abbot stands, 
And blesses them with lifted hands ! '^ 
Upon the spot where they have kneel'd. 
These men will die or win the field." — 
— '' Then prove we if they die or win ! 
Bid Gloster's Earl the fight begin." 



XXII. 

Earl Gilbert waved his truncheon high, 

Just as the Northern ranks arose, 
Signal for England's archery 

To halt and bend their bows. 
Then stepp'd each yeoman forth a pace, 
Glanced at the intervening space, 

And raised his left hand high ; 
To the right ear the cords they bring— 
— At once ten thousand bow-strings ring, 

Ten thousand arrows fiy ! 
Nor paused on the devoted Scot 
The ceaseless fury of their shot ; 

As fiercely and as fast. 
Forth whistling came the gray-goose wing 
As the wild hailstones pelt and ring 

A down December's blast. 
Nor mountain targe of tough bull-hide. 
Nor lowland mail, that storm may bide ; 
Woe, woe to Scotland's banner'd pride, 

If the fell shower may last 1 
Upon the right, behind the wood, 
Each by his steed dismounted, stood 

The Scottish chivalry ; — 
With foot in stirrup, hand on mane. 
Fierce Edward Bruce can scarce restrain 
His own keen heart, his eager train. 
Until the archers gain'd the plain ; 

Then, " Mount, ye gallants free ! '* 
He cried; and, vaulting from the ground, 
His saddle every horseman found^ 
On high their glittering crests they toss. 
As springs the wild-fire from the moss ; 
The shield hangs down on every breast, 
Each ready lance is in the rest. 

And loud shouts Edward Bruce, — 
" Forth, Marshal ! on the peasant foe ! 
We'll tame the terrors of their bow. 

And cut the bow-string loose 1 " *' 
xxm. 
Then spurs were dash'd in chargers' flanks, 
They rush'd among the archer ranks. 
No spears were there the shock to let, 
No stakes to turn the charge were set. 
And how shall yeoman's armor slight, 
Stand the long lance and mace of might? 
Or what may their short swords avail, 
'Gainst barbed horse and shirt of mail ? 
Amid their ranks the chargers sprung. 
High o'er their heads the weapons swung, 
And shriek and groan and vengeful shout 
Give note of triumph and of rout ! 
Awhile, with stubborn hardihood. 
Their English hearts the strife made good 
Borne down at length on every side, 
Compell'd to flight, they scatter wide.— 




<:-4- 



J \> 





1^ 



300 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 




Let stags of Sherwood leap for glee, 
And bound the deer of Dalloni-Lee ! 
The broken bows of Bannock's shore 
Shall in the greenwood ring no more ! 
Round Wakefield's merry May-pole now, 
The maids may twine the summer bough, 
May northward look with longing glance, 
For those that wont to lead the dance, 
For the blithe archers look in vain ! 
Broken, dispersed, in flight o'erta'en, 
Pierced through, trode down, by thousands 

slain, 
They cumber Bannock's bloody plain. 

XXIV. 

The King with scorn beheld their flight. 
"Are these," he said, "our yeomen wight? 
Each braggart churl could boast before, 
Twelve Scottish lives his baldric bore ! •*^ 
Fitter to plunder chase or park, 
Than make a manly foe their mark. — 
Forward, each gentleman and knight ! 
Let gentle blood show generous might. 
And chivalry redeem the fight ! '' 
To rightward of the wild affray, 
The field show'd fair and level way ; 

bat, in mid-space, the Bruce's care 
Had bored the ground with many a pit, 
With turf and brushwood hidden yet. 

That form'd a ghastly snare. 
Rushing, ten thousand horsemen came, 
With spears m rest, and hearts on flame, 

That panted for the shock ! 
With blazing crests and banners spread. 
And trumpet-clang and clamor dread, 
The wide plain thunder'd to their tread, 

As far as Stirling rock. 
Down ! down ! in headlong overthrow. 
Horsemen and horse, the foremost go,"*? 

Wild floundering on the field ! 
The first are in destruction's gorge. 
Their followers wildly o'er them urge : — 

The knightly helm and shield. 
The mail, the acton, and the spear. 
Strong hand, high heart, are useless here ! 
Loud from the mass confused the cry 
Of dying warriors swells on high. 
And steeds that shriek in agony ! 5° 
They came like mountain-torrent red. 
That thunders o'er its rocky bed ; 
They broke like that same torrent's wsve 
When swallow'd by a darksome cave. 
Billows on billows burst and boil. 
Maintaining still the stern turmoil. 
And to their wild and tortured groan 
Each adds new terrors of -his own 1 



XXV. 

Too strong in courage and in might 
Was England yet, to yield the fight. 

Her noblest all are here ; 
Names that to fear were never known, 
Uold Norfolk's Earl De Brotherton, 

And Oxford's famed De Vere. 
There Gloster plied the bloody sword, 
And Berkley, Grey, and Hereford, 

Bottetourt and Sanzavere, 
Ross, Montague, and Mauley, came, 
And Courtenay's pride, and Percy's fame — 
Names known too well in Scotland's war, 
At Falkirk, Methven, and Dunbar, 
Blazed broader yet in after years, 
At Cressy red and fell Poitiers. 
Pembroke with these, and Argentine, 
Brought up the rearward battle-line. 
With caution o'er the ground they tread, 
Slippery with blood and piled with dead. 
Till hand to hand in battle set. 
The bills with spears and axes met. 
And, closing dark on every side, 
Raged the full contest far and wide. 
Then was the strength of Douglas tried. 
Then proved was Randolph's generous 

pride. 
And well did Stewart's actions grace 
The sire of Scotland's royal race ! 

Firmly they kept their ground ; 
As firmly England onward press'd, 
And down went many a noble crest. 
And rent was many a valiant breast, 

And Slaughter revell'd round. 



Unflinching foot 'gainst foot was set. 
Unceasing blow by blow was met ; 

The groans of those who fell 
Were drown'd amid the shriller clang 
That from the blades and harness rang, 

And in the battle-yell. 
Yet fast they fell, unheard, forgot. 
Both Southern fierce and hardy Scot ; 
And O ! amid that waste of life, 
What various motives fired the strife ' 
The aspiring Noble bled for fame, 
The Patriot for his country's claim ; 
This Knight his youthful strength to prove. 
And that to win his lad) 's love ; 
Some fought from ruffian thirst of blood. 
From habit some, or hardihood. 
But ruffian stern, and soldier good, 

The noble and the slave. 
From various cause the same wild road. 
On the same bloody morning, trode, 

To that dark inn, the grave 1 





THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



301 



The tug of strife to flag begins, 
Though neither loses yet nor wins. 
High rides the sun, thicK rolls the dust, 
And feebler speeds the blow and thrust. 
Douglas leans on his war-sword now, 
And Randolph wipes his bloody brow ; 
Nor less had toil'd each Southern knight, 
From morn till mid-day in the fight. 
Strong Egremont for air must gasp, 
Beauchamp undoes his visor-clasp, 
And Montague must quit his spear, 
And sinks thy falchion, bold De Vere ! 
The blows of Berkley fall less fast, 
And gallant Pembroke's bugle-blast 

Hath lost its lively tone ; 
Sinks, .Argentine, thy battle-word. 
And Percy's shout was fainter heard, 

" My merry-men, fight on ! " 



Bruce, with the pilot's wary eye, 
The slackening of the storm could spy. 
" One effort more, and Scotland's free ! 
Lord of tiie Isles, my trust in thee 

Is firm as Ailsa Rock ; s' 
Rush on with Highland sword and 

targe, 
I with my Carrick spearmen charge ; 

Now, forward to the shock ! " 
At once the spears were forward thrown. 
Against the sun the broadswords shone ; 
The pibroch lent its maddening tone, 
And loud King Robert's voice was 

known — ■ 
" Carrick, press on — they fail, they fail ! 
Press on, brave sons of Innisgail, 

The foe is fainting fast ! 
Each strike for parent, child, and wife. 
For Scotland, liberty, and life, — 

The battle cannot last ! " 



The fresh and desperate onset bore 
The foes three furlongs back and more. 
Leaving their noblest in their gore. 

Alone, De Argentine 
Yet bears on high his red-cross shield. 
Gathers the relics of the field, 
Renews the ranks where they have reel'd. 

And still makes good the line. 
Brief strife, but fierce, — his efforts raise 
A bright but momentary blaze. 
Fair Edith heard the Southron shout, 
Beheld them turning from the rout, 
Heard the wild call their trumpets sent, 
In notes 'twixt triumph and lament. 



That rallying force, combined anow, 
Appear'd in her distracted view, 

To hem the Islesmen round ; 
" O God ! the combat they renew, 

And is no rescue found ! 
And ye that look thus tamely on. 
And see your native land o'erthrown, 
O ! are your hearts of flesh or stone?" 



The multitude that watch'd afar, 
Rejected from the ranks of war. 
Had not unmoved beheld the fight. 
When strove the Bruce for Scotland's 

right ; 
Each heart had cauglit the patriot spark, 
Old man and stripling, priest and clerk. 
Bondsman and serf ; even female hand 
Stretch'd to the hatchet or the brand ; 
But, when mute Amadine they heard 
Give to their zeal his signal-word, 

A frenzy fired the throng ; 
" Portents and miracles impeach 
Our sloth — the dumb our duties teach — 
And he that gives the mute his speech. 
Can bid the weak be strong. 
To us, as to our lords, are given 
A native earth, a promised heaven ; 
To us, as to our lords, belongs 
The vengeance for our nation's wrongs ; 
The choice 'twixt death or freedom, warms 
Our breasts as theirs — To arms, to arms ! '' 
To arms they flew, — a.xe, club, or spear, — 
And mimic ensigns high they rear,'^ 
And, like a banner'd host afar. 
Bear down on England's wearied war- 



Already scatter'd o'er the plain. 
Reproof, command, and counsel vain, 
The rearward squadrons fled amain, 

Or made but doubtful stay ; 
But when they mark'd the seeming show 
Of fresh and fierce and marshall'd foe, 

The boldest broke array. 
O give their hapless prince his due ! 
In vain the royal Edward threw 

His person 'mid the spears. 
Cried, " Fight !" to terror and despair, 
Menaced, and wept, and tore his hair, 

And cursed their caitiff fears ; 
Till Pembroke turn'd his bridle rein, 
And forced him from the fatal plain. 
With them rode Argentine, until 
They gain'd the summit of the hill. 

But quitted there the train : — 





d 




302 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



" In yonder field a gage I left, — 
1 must not live of fame bereft ; 

I needs must turn again. 
Speed hence, my Liege, for on your trace 
The fiery Douglas takes the chase, 

I know his banner well. 
God send my Sovereign joy and bliss. 
And many a happier field than this ! — 

Once more, my Liege, farewell." 

XXXII. 

Again he faced the battle-field, — 

Wildly they fly, are slain, or yield. 

" Now then," he said, and couch'd his 

spear, 
" My course is run, the goal is near ; 
One effort more, one brave career, 

Must close this race of mine." 
Then in his stirrups rising high, 
He shouted loud his battle-cry, 

" Saint James for .Argentine !" 
And, of the bold pursuers, four 
The gallant knight from saddle bore ; 
But not unharm'd — a lance's point 
Has found his breastplate's loosen'd joint, 

An axe has razed his crest ; 
Yet still on Colonsay's fierce lord. 
Who press'd the chase with gory sword, 

He rode with spear in rest. 
And through his bloody tartans bored, 

And through his gallant breast. 
Nail'd to the earth, the mountaineer 
Yet writhed him up against the spear. 

And swung his broadsword round ! 
— Stirrup, steel-boot, and cuish gave way, 
Beneath that blow's tremendous sway, 

The blood gush'd from the wound ; 
And the grim Lord of Colonsay 

Hath turn'd him on the ground, 
And laugh'd in death-pang, that his blade 
The mortal thrust so well repaid. 

XXXIII. 

Now toil'd the Bruce, the battle done, 
To use his conquest boldly won ; 
Aiud gave command for horse and spear 
To press the Southron's scatter'd rear, 
Nor let his broken force combine, 
■ — When the war-cry of Argentine 

Fell faintly on his ear ; 
" Save, save his life," he cried, " O save 
The kind, the noble, and the brave ! " 
The squadrons round free passage gave 

The wounded knight drew near ; 
He raised his red-cross shield no more. 
Helm, cuish, and Dreastplate, stream'd with 
gore, 



Yet, as he saw the King advance, 

He strove even then to couch his lance — 

The effort was in vain ! 
The spur-stroke fail'd to rouse the horse ; 
Wounded and weary, in mid course 

He stumbled on the plain. 
Then foremost was the generous Bruce 
To raise his head, his helm to loose ; — 

" Lord Earl, the day is thine 1 
My Sovereign's charge, and adverse fate, 
Have made our meeting all too late : 

Yet this may Argentine, 
As boon from ancient comrade, crave,^ 
A Christian's mass, a soldier's grave." 



Bruce press'd his dying hand — its grasp 
Kindly replied ; but, in his clasp, 

It stiffen'd and grew cold — 
" And, O farewell ! " the victor cried, 
" Of chivalry the flower and pride, 

The arm in battle bold, 
The courteous mien, the noble race, 
The stainless faith, the manly face ! — 
Bid Ninian's convent light tlieir shrine. 
For late-wake of De Argentine. 
O'er better knight on death-bier laid, 
Torch never gleam'd nor mass was said ! * 



Nor for De Argentine alone. 

Through Ninian's church tliese torches 

shone, 
And rose the death-prayer's awful tone. 
That yellow lustre glimmer'd pale. 
On broken plate and bloodied mail, 
Rent crest and shatter'd coronet, 
Of Baron, Earl, and Banneret ; 
And the best names that England knew, 
Claim'd in the death-prayer dismal due. 

Yet mourn not, Land of Fame ! 
Though ne'er the Leopards on thy shield 
Retreated from so sad a field. 

Since Norman William came. 
Oft may thine annals justly boast 
Of battles stern by Scotland lost ; 

Grudge not her victory. 
When for her freeborn rights she strove \ 
Rights dear to kll who freedom love. 

To none so dear as thee 1 

XXXVI. 

Turn we to Bruce, whose curious ear 
Must from Fitz-Louis tidings hear: 
With him a hundred voices tell 
Of prodigy and miracle, 

" For the mute page had spoke." — 





E 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



303 



" Page ! " said Fitz-Louis, " rather say, 
An angel sent from realms of day, 

To burst the English yoke. 
I saw his plume and bonnet drop, 
When hurrying from the mountain-top ; 
A lovely brow, dark locks that wave, 
To his bright eyes new lustre gave ; 
A step as light upon the green. 
As if his pinions waved unseen ! " — 
"Spoke he with none? " — " With none — 

one word 
Burst when he saw the Island Lord, 
Returning from the battle-field." — 
" What answer made the Chief ? " — " He 

kneel "d. 
Durst not look np, but mutter'd low, 
Some mingled sounds that none might 

know, 
And greeted him 'twixt joy and fear, 
As being of superior sphere.'' 



Even upon Bannock's bloody plain, 
Heap'd then with thousands of the slain, 
'Mid victor monarch's musings high,. 
Mirth laugh'd in good King Robert's eye- 
" And bore he such angelic air. 
Such noble front, such waving hair ? 
Hath Ronald kneel'd to him ?'' he said, 
" Then must we call the churcli to aid — 
Our will be to the Abbot known. 
Ere these strange news are wider blown. 
To Cambuskenneth straight ye pass. 
And deck the church for solemn mass. 
To pay for higli deliverance given, 
A nation's thanks to gracious Heaven. 
Let him array, besides, such state. 
The hould on princes' nuptials wait. 



Ourself the cause, through fortune's spite, 
That once broke short that spousal rite, 
Ourself will grace, witli early morn, 
The bridal of the Maid of Lorn." 

CONCLUSION. 

Go forth, my Song, upon thy venturous 

way ; 
Go boldly forth ; nor yet tliy mastes 

blame. 
Who chose no patron for his humble lay. 
And graced thy numbers with no friendly 

name. 
Whose partial zeal might smooth thy 

path to fame. 
There ivas — and O ! how many sorrows 

crowd 
Into these two brief words I there was a 

claim 
By generous friendship given — had fate 

allow' d. 
It well had bid thee rank the proudest of 

the proud ! 

All angel now — yet little less than all. 
While still a pilgrim in our world below ! 
What 'vails it us that patience tc recall. 
Which hid its own to soothe all other 

woe ; 
What 'vails to tell, how Virtue's purest 

glow 
Shone yet more lovely in a form so fair ; 
And, least of all, what 'vails the world 

should know, 
That one poor garland, twined to deck 

thy hair, 
Is hung upon thy hearse, to droop and 

wither there 1 





'W 





THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 



A POEM. 



TO HER GRACE THE 

DUCHESS OF WELLINGTON, 

PRINCESS OF WATERLOO, &c., &c., &c., 
THE FOLLOWING VERSES ARE MOST RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED BY 

THE AUTHOR. 



It maybe soine apology for the imperfections of this poem, that it was composed hastily, 
and during' a short tour upon the Continent, when the A uthor^s labors were liable to frequent 
interruption ; but its best apology is, that it was written for the purpose of assisting the 
Waterloo Subscription. 
Abbotsford, i3i5. 



THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 



Though Valois braved young Edward's gentle hand, 

And Albert rush'd on Henry's way-worn band, 

With Europe's chosen sons, in arms renown'd, 

Yet not on Vere's bold archers long they look'd, 

Nor Audley's squires, nor Mowbray's yeomen brook'd, — 

They saw their standard fall, and left their monarch bound. — Akknside. 

For many a league around, 
With birch and darksome oak between, 
Spreads deep and far a pathless screen, 

Of tangled forest ground. 
Stems planted close by stems defy 
The adventurous foot — the curious e3'e 

For access seeks in vain ; 
And the brown tapestry of leaves, 
Strew'd on the blighted ground, receives 

Nor sun, nor air, nor rain. 
No opening glade dawns on our way, 
No streamlet, glancing to the ray, 

Our woodland path has cross'd; 
And the straight causeway which we tread 



Fair Brussels, thou art far behind, 
Though, lingering on the morning wind, 

We yet may hear the hour 
Peal'd over orchard and canal, 
With voice prolong'd and measured fall, 

From proud St. Michael's tower ; 
Thy wood, dark Soignies, holds us now,* 
Where the tall beeches' glossy bough. 



* The wood of Soignies is a remnant of the 
forest of Ardennes, the scene of the charming 
and romantic incidents of Shakespeare's " As 
You Like It." 
(304'> 







THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 



305 



Prolongs a line of dull arcade, 
Unvarying through the unvaried shade 
Until in distance lost. 



A brighter, livelier scene succeeds ; 
In groups the scattering wood recedes, 
Hedge-rows, and huts, and sunny meads. 

And corn-fields, glance between ; 
The peasant at his labor blithe, 
Plies the hook'd staff and shorten'd 
scythe ; ' — 

But when these ears were green. 
Placed close within destruction's scope, 
Full little was that rustic's hope 

Their ripening to have seen ! 
And, lo, a hamlet and its fane : — 
Let not the gazer with disdain 

Their architecture view ; 
For yonder rude ungraceful shrine. 
And disproportion'd spire, are thine, 

Immortal Waterloo ! 



Fear not the heat, though full and high 
The sun has scorch'd the autumn sky, 
And scarce a forest straggler now 
To shade us spreads a greenwood bough : 
These fields have seen a hotter day 
Than e'er was fired by sunny ray. 
Yet one mile on — yon shatter'd hedge 
Crest the soft hill whose long smooth ridge 

Looks on the field below. 
And sinks so gently on the dale. 
That not the folds of Beauty's veil 

In easier curves can flow. 
Brief space from thence, the ground again 
Ascending slowly from the plain, 

Forms an opposing screen. 
Which, with its crest of upland ground, 
Shuts the horizon all around. 

The soften'd veil between 
Slopes smooth and fair for courser's tread ; 
Not th 3 most timid maid need dread 
To give her snow-white palfrey head 

On that wide stubble-ground ; 
Nor wood, nor tree, nor bush, are tliere, 
Her course to intercept or scare, 

Nor fosse nor fence are found. 
Save where, from out her shatter'd bowers. 
Rise Hougomont's dismantled towers. 



Now, see'st thou aught in this ione scene 
Can tell of that which late hath been ? — 

A stranger might reply, 
" The bare extent of stubble-plain 
Seems lately lighten'd of its grain ; 



And yonder sable tracks remain 
Marks of the peasant's ponderous wain, 

When harvest-home was nigh. 
On these broad spots of trampled ground, 
Perchance the rustics danced such round 

As Teniers loved to draw ; 
And where the earth seems scorch'd by 

flame. 
To dress the homely feast they came, 
And toil'd the kerchief'd village dame 

Around her fire of straw." 



So deem'st thou — so each mortal deems, 
Of that which is from that which seems. — 

But other harvest here. 
Than that which peasant's scythe demands, 
Was gather'd in by sterner hands, 

With bayonet, blade, and spear. 
No vulgar crop was theirs to reap, 
No stinted harvest thin and cheap 1 
Heroes before each fatal sweep 

Fell thick as ripen'd grain ; 
And ere the darkening of the day. 
Piled high as autumn shocks, there lay 
The ghastly harvest of the fray, 

The corpses of the slain. 



Ay, look again — that line, so black 
And trampled, marks the bivouac, 
Yon deep-graved ruts the artillery's track, 

So often lost and won ; 
And close beside, the harden'd mud 
Still shows where, fetlock deep in blood. 
The fierce dragoon, through battle's flood, 

Dash'd the hot war-horse on. 
These spots of excavation tell 
The ravage of the bursting shell — 
And feel'st thou not the tainted steam, 
That reeks against the sultry beam. 

From yonder trenched mound .'' 
The pestilential fumes declare 
That Carnage has replenish'd there 

Her garner-house profound. 

VII. 

Far other harvest-home and feast, 

Than claims the boor from scythe released, 

On these scorch'd fields were known ! 
Death hover'd o'er the maddening rout, 
And, in the thrilling battle-shout. 
Sent for the bloody banquet out 

A summons of his own. 
Through rolling smoke the Demon's eye 
Could well each destined guest espy, 
Well could his ear in ecstacy 

Distinguish every tone 



^ 






sob 



SCOTT'S- POETICAL WORKS. 



That fill'd the chorus of the fray — 
From cannon-roar and trumpet bray, 
From charging squadrons' wild hurra, 
From the wild clang that mark'd their way,- 

Down to the dyin^ groan, 
And the last sob of life's decay, 

When breath was all but fllown. 



Feast on, stern foe of mortal life, 
Feast on ! but think not that a strife, 
With such promiscuous carnage rife, 

Protracted space may last ; 
The deadly tug of war at length 
Must limits find in human strength, 

And cease when these are past. 
Vain hope! — that morn's o'erclouded sun 
Heard the wild shout of fight begun 

Ere he attain'd his height. 
And through the war-smoke, volumed high. 
Still peals that imremitted cry, 

Though now he stoops to night. 
For ten long hours of doubt and dread. 
Fresh succors from the extended head 
Of either hill the contest fed ; 

Still down the slope they drew. 
The charge of columns paused not, 
Nor ceased the storm of shell and shot ; 

For all that war could do 
Of skill and force was proved that day. 
And turn'd not yet the doubtful fray 

On bloody Waterloo. 



Pale Brussels ! then what thoughts were 

thine,- 
When ceaseless from the distant line 

Continued thunders came ! 
Each burgher held his breath, to hear. 
These forerunners of havoc near, 

Of rapine and of flame. 
What ghastly sights were thine to meet, 
When rolling through thy stately street, 
The wounded show'd their mangled plight 
In token of the unfinish'd fight. 
And from each anguish-laden warn 
The blood-drops laid thy dust like rain ! 
How often in the distant drum 
Heard'st thou the fell Invader come. 
While Ruin, shouting to his band. 
Shook high her torch and gory brand ! — 
Cheer thee, fair City! From yon stand. 
Impatient, still his outstretch'd hafid 

Points to his prey in vain. 
While maddening in his eager mood, 
And all unwont to be withstood, 

He fires the fight again. 



" On I On ! " was still his stem exclaim ; ^ 
" Confront the battery's jaws of flame ! 

Rush on the levell'd gun ! 
My steel-clad cuirassiers, advance ! 
Each Hulan forward with his lance. 
My Guard^my Chosen — charge for France 

France and Napoleon ! " 
Loud answer'd their acclaiming shout. 
Greeting the mandate which sent out 
Their bravest and their best to dare 
The fate their leader shunn'd to share.* 
But He, his country's sword and shield, 
Still in the battle-front reveal'd, 
Where danger fiercest swept the field. 

Came like a beam of light, 
In action prompt, in sentence brief — 
" Soldiers, stand firm." exclaim'd the Chief 

" England shall tell the fight ! " s 



On came the whirlwind — like the last 
But fiercest sweep of tempest-blast — 
On came the whirlwind — steel-gleams broke 
Like lightning through the rolling smoke ; 

The war was waked anew. 
Three hundred cannon-mouths roar'd loud, 
.•\nd from their throats, with flash and cloud, 

Their showers of iron threw. 
Beneath their fire, in full career, 
Rush'd on the ponderous cuirassier. 
The lancer couch'd his ruthless spear. 
And hurrying as to havoc near, 

The cohorts' eagles flew. 
In one dark torrent, broad and strong. 
The advancing onset roll'd along, 
Forth harbinger'd by fierce acclaim. 
That, from the shroud of smoke and flame. 
Peal'd widely the imperial name. 



But on the British heart were lost 

The terrors of the charging host ; 

For not an eye the storm that view'd 

Changed its proud glance of fortitude, 

Nor was one forward foots-tep staid. 

As dropp'd the dying and the dead. 

Fast as their ranks the thunders tear. 

Fast they renew'd each serried square ; 

And on the wounded and the slain 

Closed their diminish'd files again. 

Till from their line scarce spears' lengths 

three. 
Emerging from the smoke they see 
Helmet, and plume, and panoply, — 
Then waked their fire at once ! 






t #«%*te:MMe,'*"'-«-'*l 



"'On! on!' was still his stern exclaim, 
'Confront the battery's jaws of flame ! 



' — Page 306. 




^ 



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THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 



307 



Each musketeer's revolving knell, 
As fast, as regularly fell, 
As when they practise to display 
Their discipline on festal day. 

Then down went helm and lance, 
Down were the eagle banners sent, 
Down reeling steeds and riders went. 
Corslets were pierced, and pennons rent ; 

And, to augment the fray, 
Wheel'd full against their staggering flanks. 
The English horsemen's foaming ranks 

Forced their resistless way. 
Then to the musket-knell succeeds 
The clash of swords— the neigh of steeds — 
As plies the smith his clanging trade,*" 
Against the cuirass rang the blade ; 
And while amid their close array 
The well-served cannon rent their way, 
And while amid their scatter'd band 
Raged the fierce rider's bloody brand, 
Recoil'd in common rout and fear, 
Lancer and guard and cuirassier. 
Horsemen and foot — a mingled host, 
Their leaders fall'n, their standards lost. 



Then, Wellington ! thy piercing eye 
This crisis caught of destiny — 

The British host had stood 
That morn 'gainst charge of sword and 

lance * 
As their own ocean-rocks hold stance, 
But when thy voice had said, " Advance ! " 

They were their ocean's flood. — 
O Thou, whose inauspicious aim 
Hath wrought thy host this hour of shame, 
Think'st thou thy broken bands will bide 
The terrors of yon rushing tide .'' 
Or will thy chosen brook to feel 
The British shock of levell'd steel,^ 

Or dost thou turn thine eye 
Where coming squadrons gleam afar. 
And fresher thunders wake the war, 

And other standards fly ? — 
Think not that in yon columns, file 
Thy conquering troops from distant Dyle — 

Is Blucher yet unknown .' 
Or dwells not in thy memory still, 
(Heard frequent in thine hour of ill,) 
What notes of hate and vengeance thrill 

In Prussia's trumpet tone .'' — 



* " The British square stood unmoved, and 
never gave fire until the cavalry were within 
ten yards, when men rolled one wav, horses 
galloped another, and the cuirassiers were in 
every instance driven back." — Life 0/ Bona- 
i>arle, vol. ix. p. iz. 




What yet remains ? — shall it be thine 
To head the relics of thy line 

In one dread effort more i" — 
The Roman lore thy leisure lov^, 
And thou canst tell what fortune proved 

That Chieftain, who, of yore. 
Ambition's dizzy paths essay'd, 
And with the gladiators' aid 

For empire enterpnsed— 
He stood the cast his rashness play'd. 
Left not the victims he liad made. 
Dug his red grave with his own ulade. 
And on the field he lost was laid, 

Abhorr'd — but not despised. 



But if revolves thy fainter thought 
On safety — howsoever brought, — 
Then turn thy fearful rein and ride. 
Though twice ten thousand men have died 

On this eventful day. 
To gild the military fame 
Which thou, for life, in traffic tame 

Wilt barter thus away. 
Shall future ages tell this tale 
Of inconsistence faint and frail? 
And art thou He of Lodi's bridge, 
Marengo's field, and Wagram's ridge ! 

Or is thy soul like mountain-tide. 
That, swell'd by winter storm and shower, 
Rolls down in turbulence of power, 

A torrent fierce and wide ; 
Reft of these aids, a rill obscure. 
Shrinking unnoticed, mean and poor, 

Whose channel shows display' d 
The wrecks of its impetuous course, 
But not one symptom of the force 

By which these wrecks were made ! 



Spur on thy way ! — since now thine ear 
Has brook'd thy veterans' wish to hear, 

Who, as thy flight they eyed, 
Exclaim'd, — while tears of anguish came, 
Wrung forth by pride, and rage, and 
shame, — 

" O, that he had but died ! " 
But yet, to sum this hour of ill. 
Look, ere thou leavest the fatal hill. 

Back on yon broken ranks — 
Upon whose wild confusion gleams 
The moon, as on the troubled streams 

When rivers break their banks, 
And, to the ruin'd peasant's eye, 
Objects half seen roll swiftly by, 

Down the dread current hurl'd— 
So mingle banner, wain, and gun, 



SEF 




'K 



toS 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Where the tumultuous fight rolls on 
Of warriors, who, when morn begun, 
Defied a banded world. 



List — frequent to the hurrying rout, 
The stern pursuers' vengeful shout 
Tells, that upon their broken rear 
Rages the Prussian's bloody spear. 

So fell a shriek was none, 
When Beresina's icy flood 
Redden'd and thaw'd with flame and blood. 
And, pressing on thy desperate way, 
Raised oft and long their wild hurra. 

The children of the Don. 
Thine ear no yell of horror cleft 
So ominous, when all bereft 
Of aid, the valiant Polack left* — 
Ay, left by thee — found soldier's grave 
In Leipsic's corpse-encumber'd wave. 
Fate, in those various perils past. 
Reserved tliee still some future cast ; 
On the dread die thou now hast thrown, 
Hangs not a single field alone, 
Nor one cam.paign— thy martial fame, 
Thy empire, dynasty, and name. 

Have felt the final stroke ; 
And now, o'er thy devoted head 
The last stern vial's wrath is shed, 

The last dread seal is broke. 



Since live thou wilt — refuse not now 
Before these demagogues to bow, 
Late objects of thy scorn and hate, 
'Who shall thy once imperial fate 
Make worldly theme of vain debate. — 
Or shall we say, thou stoop'st less low 
In seeking refuge from the foe. 
Against whose heart, in prosperous life, 
Thine hand hath ever held the knife .? 

Such homage hath been paid 
By Roman and by Grecian voice, 
And tliere were honor in the choice. 

If it were freely made. 
Then safely come, — in one so low — 
So lost, — we cannot own a foe ; 
Though dear e.xperience bid us end. 
In thee we ne'er can hail a friend. — 
Come, howsoe'er — but do not hide 
Close in thy heart that germ of pride, 
Erewhile, by gifted bard espied, 

That " yet imperial hope ; " 

* For an account of the death of Ponia- 
towski at Leipsic, see Sir Walter Scott's Z/A' 
of Bonaparte, \o\. v\\.^. Aoi. 



Think not that for a fresh rebound, 
To raise ambition from the ground, 

We yield thee means or scope. 
In safety come — but ne'er again 
Hold type of independent reign ; 

No islet calls thee lord. 
We leave thee no confederate band, 
No symbol of thy lost command. 
To be a dagger in the hand 

From which we wrench'd the sword. 



Yet, even in yon sequester'd spot, 
May worthier conquest be thy lot 

Than yet thy life has known ; 
Conquest, unbought by blood or harm, 
That needs nor foreign aid nor arm, 

A triumph all thine own. 
Such waits thee when thou shalt control 
Those passions W'ld, that stubborn soul, 

That marr'd thy prosperous scene : 
Hear this — from no unmoved heart. 
Which sighs, comparing what thou art 

With what thou might'st have been 

XIX. 

TJiou, too, whose deeds of fame renew'd 

Bankrupt a nation's gratitude, 

To thine own noble heart must owe 

More than the meed she can bestow. 

For not a people's just acclaim. 

Not the full hail of Europe's fame. 

Thy Prince's smiles, thy State's decree^ 

The ducal rank, the garter'd knee. 

Not these such pure delight afford 

As that, when hanging up thy sword. 

Well may'st thou think, " This honest steel 

Was ever drawn for public weal ; 

And, such was rightful Heaven's decree, 

Ne'er sheathed unless with victory ! " 

XX. 

Look forth, once more, with soften 'd heart, 
Ere from the field of fame we part ; 
Triumph and Sorrow border near, 
And joy oft melts into a tear. 
Alas I what links of love that morn 
Has War's rude hand asunder torn ! 
For ne'er was field so sternly fought. 
And ne'er was conquest dearer bought. 
Here piled in common slaughter sleep 
Those whom affection long shall weep : 
Here rests the sire, that ne'er shall strain 
His orphans to his heart again ; 
The son, whom, on his native shore, 
The parent's voice shall bless no more ; 
The bridegroom, who has hardly press'd 
His blushing consort to his breast : 







THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 



309 



The husband, whom through many a year 
Long love and mutual faith endear. 
Thou canst not name one tender tie, 
But here dissolved its relics lie ! 
! when thou see'st some mourner's veil 
Shroud her thin form and visage pale, 
Or mark'st the Matron's bursting tears 
Stream when the stricken drum she hears ; 
Or see'st how manlier grief, suppress'd, 
fs laboring in a father's breast, — 
With no inquiry vain pursue 
The cause, but think on Waterloo 1 

XXI. 

Period of honor as of woes. 
What bright careers 'twas thine to close ! * 
Mark'd on thy roll of blood what names 
To Briton's memory, and to Fame's, 
Laid there their last immortal claims I 
Thou saw'st in seas of gore expire 
Redoubted Picton's soul of fire — 
Saw'st in the mingled carnage lie 
All that of PoNSONBY could die — 
De Lancey change Love's bridal wreath. 
For laurels from the hand of Death 9 — 
Saw'st gallant Miller's failing eye '° 
Still bent where Albion's banners fly. 
And Cameron," in the shock of steel. 
Die like the offspring of Lochiel ; 
And geiierous Gordon,'^ 'mid the strife, 
Fall, while he watch'd his leader's life. — 
Ah ! though her guardian angel's shield 
Fenced Britain's hero through the field, 
Fate not the less her power made known. 
Through his friends' hearts to pierce his 
own I * 

XXII. 

Forgive, brave Dead, the imperfect lay ! 
Who may your names, your numbers say ? 
What high-strung harp, what lofty line, 
To each the dear-earn'd praise assign. 
From high-born chiefs of martial fame 
To the poor soldier's lowlier name ? 
Lightly ye rose that dawning-day, 
From your cold couch of swamp and clay, 
To fill, before the sun was low. 
The bed that morning cannot know.- 
0ft may the tear and green sod steep. 
And sacred be the heroes' sleep. 

Till time shall cease to run ; 
And ne'er beside their noble grave, 
May Briton pass and fail to crave 
A blessing on the fallen brave 

Who fought with Wellington ! 

* The grief of the victor for the fate of his 
friends is touchingly described by those who 
witnessed it. 



xxin. 
Farewell, sad Field I whose bhghted face 
Wears desolation's withering trace, 
Long shall my memory retain 
Thy shatter'd huts and trampled grain, 
With every mark of martial wrong, 
That scathe thy towers, fair Hougomonl ! -^ 
Yet though thy garden's green arcade 
The marksman's fatal post was made. 
Though on thy shatter'd beeches fell 
The blended rage of shot and shell, 
Though from thy blacken'd portals torn, 
Their fall thy blighted fruit-trees mourn, 
Has not such havoc bought a name 
Immortal in the rolls of fame? 
Yes — .Agincourt may be forgot, 
And Cressy be an unknown spot^ 

And Blenheim's name be new ; 
But still in story and in song. 
For many an age remembered long. 
Shall live the towers of Hougomont, 

And Field of Waterloo. 

CONCLUSION. 

Stern tide of human Time ! that know'st 

not rest. 
But sweeping from the cradle to the 

tomb, 
Bear'st ever downward on thy dusky 

breast, 
Successive generations to their doom ; 
While thy capacious stream has equal 

room 
For the gay bark where Pleasure's 

streamers sport, 
And for the prison-ship of guilt and 

gloom. 
The fisher-skiff, and barge that bears a 

court, 
Still wafting onward all to one dark silent 

port ; — 

Stern tide of Time ! through what 

mysterious change 
Of hope and fear have our frail barks 

been driven ! 
For ne'er, before, vicissitude so strange 
Was to one race of Adam's offspring 

given. 
And sure such varied change of sea and 

heaven. 
Such unexpected bursts of joy and woe, 
Such fearful strife as that where we have 

striven. 
Succeeding aE;es ne'er again shall know, 
Until the awful term when Thou shalt 

cease to flow ! 




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310 SCOTT'S POETICAL IVORKS. 






Well hast thou stood, my Country !— 


Now, Island Empress, wave thy crest 




the brave fight 


on high, 






Hast well maintain'd through good 


And bid the banner of thy Patron 






report and ill ; 


flow. 


'' 




In thy just cause and in thy native 


Gallant St. George, the flower of 






misfit, 


Chivalry, 






And in Heaven's grace and justice con- 


For thou hast faced, like him, a dragon 






stant still ; 


foe, 






Whether the banded prowess, strength, 


And rescued innocence from overthrow, 






and skill 


And trampled down, like him, tyrannic 






Of half the world against thee stood 


might. 






array'd, 


And to the gazing world mayst proudly 






Or when, with better views and freer will. 


show 






Beside thee Europe's noblest drew the 


The chosen emblem of thy sainted 






blade. 


Knight, 






Each emulous in arms the Ocean Queen 


Who quell'd devouring pride, and vindi- 






to aid. 


cated right. 






Well art thou now repaid — though 


Yet 'mid the confidence of just re- 






slowly rose. 


nown, 






And struggled long with mists thy blaze 


Renown dear-bought, but dearest thus 






of fame. 


acquired. 






While like the dawn that in the orient 


Write, Britain, write the moral lesson 






glows 


down : 






On the broad wave its earlier lustre 


'Tis not alone the heart with valor 






came ; [flame, 


fired, 






Then eastern Egypt saw the growing 


The discipline so dreaded and admired. 






And Maida's myrtles gleam'd beneatli 


In many a field of bloody conquest 






its ray, 


known ; 






Where first the soldier, stung with 


— Such may by fame be lured, by gold 






generous shame, 


be hired — 






Rivall'd the heroes of the wat'ry way, 


'Tis constancy in thy good cause alone. 






And wash'd in foeman's gore unjust 


Best justifies the meed thy valiant sons 






reproach away. 


have won. 






HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 






A POEM IN 


SIX CANTOS. 






INTRODUCTION. 


Obscured the painting seems, mistuned 






There is a mood of mind, we all have 

known 
On drowsy eve, or dark and low'ring day, 
When the tired spirits lose their sprightly 


the lay, 
Nor dare we of our listless load complain, 






For who for sympathy may seek that can- 
not tell of pain ? 






tone, 


The jolly sportsman knows such dreari- 






And nought can chase the lingering 


hood, 






^ ' hours away. 


When bursts in deluge the autumnal rain, 






r Dull on our soul falls Fancy's dazzling 
1 ray, 


Clouding that morn which threats the 


^ 




heath-cock's brood ; 






And Wisdom holds his steadier tordi in 


Of such, in summers drought, the an-^lers 






vain. 


plain. 




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'A. 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 



311 



Who hope the soft mild southern shower 
in vain : 

But, more than all, the discontented fair, 

Whom father stern, and sterner aunt, re- 
strain 

From country-ball, or race occurring rare, 
While all her friends around their vestments 
gay prepare. 

Ennui ! — or, as our mothers call'd thee. 

Spleen ! 
To thee we owt full many a rare device ; — 
Thine is the sheaf of painted cards, I 

ween, 
The rolling billiard-ball, the rattling 

dice; 
The turning-lathe for framing gimcrack 

nice ; 
The amateur's blotch'd pallet thou mayst 

claim, 
Retort, and air-pump, threatening frogs 

and mice, 
(Murders disguised by philosophic name,) 
A.nd much of trifling grave, and much of 

buxom game. 

Then of the books, to catch thy drowsy 

glance, 
Compiled, what bard the catalogue may 

quote ! 
Plays, poems, novels, never read but 

once ; — 
But not of such the tale fair Edgeworth 

wrote, 
That bears thy name, and is thine anti- 
dote ; 
And not of such the strain my Thomson 

sung, 
Delicious dreams inspiring by his note, 
What time to Indolence his harp he 

strung ;— 
Oh ! might my lay be rank'd that happier 

list among ! 

Each hath his refuge whom thy cares 

assail. 
For me, I love my study-fire to trim. 
And con right vacantly some idle tale. 
Displaying on the couch each listless 

limb, 
Till on the drowsy page the lights grow 

d;'m, 
And doubtful slumber half supplies the 

theme ; 
While antique shapes of knight and giant 

grim. 



Damsel and dwarf, in long procession 
gleam, 
And the Romancer's tale becomes the Read- 
er's dream. 

'Tis thus my malady I well may bear. 
Albeit outstretch'd, like Pope's own 

Paridel, 
Upon the rack of a too-easy chair ; 
And find, to cheat the time, a powerful 

spell 
In old romaunts of errantry that tell, 
Or later legends of the Fairy-folk, 
Or Oriental tale of Afrite fell. 
Of Genii, Talisman, and broad-wing'd 

Roc, 
Though taste may blush and frown, and 

sober reason mock. 

Oft at such season, too, will rhymes un 

sought 
Arrange themselves in some romantic 

lay ; — 
The which, as things unfitting graver 

thought, 
Are burnt or blotted on some wiser 

day. — 
These few survive — and proudly let me 

say, f 

Court not the critic's smile, nor dread his 

frown ; 
They well may serve to while an hour 

away, 
Nor does the volume ask for more renown, 
Than Ennui's yawning smile, what time she 

drops it down. 



CANTO FIRST. 



List to the valorous deeds that were done 
By Harold the Dauntless, Count Witikind's 
son 1 

Count Witikind came of a regal strain, 
And roved with his Norsemen the land and 

the main. 
Woe to the realms which he coasted 1 for 

there 
Was shedding of blood, and rending of haiTj 
Rape of maiden, and slaughter of priest, 
Gathering of ravens and wolves to the feast ' 
When he hoisted his standard black. 
Before him was battle, behind him wrack, 
And he burn'd the churches, that heathen 

Dane, 
To light his band to their barks again. 



A 



312 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



On Erin's shores was his outrage known. 
The winds of France had his barmers 

blown ; 
Little vvas there to plunder, yet still 
His pirates had foray'd on Scottish h..i : 
But upon merry England's coast 
More frequent he sail'd, for he won the 

most. 
So wide and so far his ravage they knew, 
If a sail but gleam'd white 'gainst the welkin 

blue, 
Trnmpet and bugle to arms did call, 
Burghers hasten'd to man the wall. 
Peasants fled inland his fury to 'scape, 
Beacons were lighted on headland and cape, 
Bells were toll'd out, and aye as they rung. 
Fearful and faintly the gray brothers sung, 
" Bless us, St. Mary, from flood and from 

fire, 
From famine and pest, and Count Witikind's 

ire 1 " 



He liked the wealth of fair England so well, 

That he sought in her bosom as native to 
dwell. 

He enter'd the Humber in fearful hour. 

And disembark'd with his Danish power. 

Three Earls came against him with all their 
train, — 

Two hath he taken, and one hath he slain. 

Count Witikind left the Humber's rich 
strand, 

And he wasted and warr'd in Northumber- 
land. 

But the Saxon King was a sire in age, 

Weak in battle, in council sage ; 

Peace of that heathen leader he sought, 

Gifts he gave, and quiet he bought ; 

And the Count took upon him the peaceable 
style 

Of a vassal and liegeman of Britain's broad 
isle. 

IV. 

Time will rust the sharpest sword. 

Time will consume the strongest cord j 

That which moulders hemp and steel, 

Mortal arm and nerve must feel. 

Of the Danish band, whom Count Witikind 

led. 
Many wax'd aged, and many were dead : 
Himself found his armor full weighty to 

bear. 
Wrinkled his brows grew, and hoary his 

hair : 



He lean'd on a staff, when his step went 
abroad. 

And patient his palfrey, when steed he be- 
strode. 

As he grew feebler, his wildncss ceased. 

He made himself peace with prelate and 
priest ; 

Made his peace, and, stooping his head. 

Patiently listed the counsel they said ; 

Saint Cuthbert's Bishop was holy and| 
grave, J 

Wise and good was the counsel he gave. 



" Thou hast murder'd, robb'd, and spoil'd 
Time it is thy poor soul were assoil'd ; 
Priests didst thou slay, and churches burn, 
Time it is now to repentance to turn ; 
Fiends hast thou worshipp'd, with fiendish 

rite, 
Leave now the darkness, and wend into 

light : 
O ! while life and space; are given. 
Turn thee yet, and think of Heaven ! " 
That stern old heathen his head he raised, 
And on the good prelate he steadfastly 

gazed ; 
" Give me broad lands on the Wear and the 

Tyne, 
My faith I will leave, and I'll cleave luito 

thine." 

VI. 

Broad lands he gave him on Tyne and 

Wear, 
To be held of the Church by bridle and 

spear ; 
Part of Monkwearmouth, of Tyndale part, 
To better his will, and to soften his heart : 
Count Witikind was a joyful man. 
Less for the faith than the lands that he 

wan. 
The high church of Durham is dress'd for 

the day, 
The clergy are rank'd in their solemn 

array ; 
There came the Count, in a bear-skin 

warm, 
Leaning on Hilda his concubine's arm 
He kneel'd before Saint Cuthbert's shrine, 
With patience unwonted at rites divine; 
He abjured the gods of heathen race. 
And he bent his head at the font of grace. 
But such was the grisly old proselyte' 

look. 
That the priest who baptized him grew pal, 

and shook : 






HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 



313 



And the old monks mutter'd beneath their 

hood, 
•' Of a stem so stubborn can never spring 

good ! ' ' 



Up then arose that grim convertite. 
Homeward he hied him when ended tlie 

rite ; 
The Prelate ir^ honor will with him ride, 
And feast in his castle on Tyne's fair side.' 
Banners and banderols danced in the wind, 
Monks rode before them, and spearman be- 
hind ; 
Onward they pass'd till fairly did shine 
Pennon and cross on the bosom of Tyne ; 
And full in front did that fortress lower. 
In darksome strength with its buttress and 

tower ; 
At the castle gate was young Harold there, 
Count Witikind"s only offspring and heir. 

VIII 

Young Harold was tear'd for his hardi- 
hood. 

His strength of frame, and his fury of 
mood. 

Rude he was and wild to behold, 

"Wore neither collar nor bracelet of gold, 

Cap of vair nor rich array. 

Such as should grace that festal day : 

His doublet of bull's hide was all un- 
braced, 

Uncover'd his head, and his sandal un- 
laced : 

His shaggy black locks on his brow hung 
low, 

And his eyes, glanced through them a 
swarthy glow ; 

A Danish club in his hand he bore, 

The spikes were clotted with recent gore ; 

At his back a she-wolf, and her wolf-cubs 
twain, 

In the dangerous chase that morning slain. 

Rude was the greeting his father he" made, 

None to the Bishop, — while thus he said :— 

IX. 

" \yhat priest-led hypocrite art thou, 
With thy humble look and thy monkish 

brow. 
Like a shaveling who studies to cheat his 

vow? . 
Canst thou be Witikind the Waster 

known, 
Royal Eric's fearless son, 
Haughty Gunhilda's haughtier lord. 
Who won his bride by the axe and sword ; | 



From the shrine of St. Peter the chalice 

who tore. 
And melted to bracelets for Fre\-a and 

Thor; 
With one blow of his gauntlet who burst 

the skull, 
Before Odin's stone, of the Mountain 

Bull ? 
Then ye worshipp'd with rites that to 

war-gods belong, 
With the deed of the brave, and the blow of 

the strong ; 
And now, in thine age to dotage sunk, 
Wilt thou patter thy crimes to a shaven 

monk, — 
Lay down thy mail-sliirt for clothing o\ 

hair, — 
Fasting and scourge, like a slave, wilt thou 

bear? 
Or, at best, be admitted in slothful bower 
To batten with priest and with paramour ? 
Oh ! out upon thine endless shame ! 
Each Scald's high harp shall blast thy 

fame, 
.\nd thy son vdll refuse thee a father's 

name I " 

X. 

Ireful wax'd old Witikind's Jock, 

His faltering voice with fury shook :-- 

" Hear me, Harold of harden'd heart ! 

Stubborn and wilful ever thou wert. 

Thine outrage insane I command thee to 

cease, 
Fear my wrath and remain at peace : — 
Just is the debt of repentance I've paid, 
Richly the Church has a recompense made, 
And the truth of her doctrines I prcvft with 

my blade. 
But reckoning to none of my actions 1 

owe. 
And least to my son such accounting will 

show. 
Why speak I to thee of repentance or truth, 
Who ne'er from thy childhood knew reason 

or ruth ? 
Hence ! to the wolf and the bear in her den : 
These are thy mates, and not rational men." 

XI. 
Grimly smiled Harold, and coldly replied, 
" We must honor our sires, if we fear when 

they chide. 
For me, I am yet what thy lessons have 

made, 
I was rock'd in a buckler and fed from a 

blade • 





3M 



SCOTT'S POETICAL IVORKS. 



An infant, was taught to clasp hands and 
to shout 

From the roof of the tower when the flame 
had broke out ; 

In the blood of slain foemen my finger to 
dip, 

And tinge with its purple my cheek and 
my lip. — 

'Tis thou know'st not truth, that has bar- 
ter'd in eld, 

For a price, the brave faith that thine an- 
cestors held. I XIV. 

When this wolf," — and the carcase he flung Apart from the wassail, in turret alone 



With Kyrie Eleison, came clamorously in 
The war-songs of Danesmen, Norweyan, 

and Finn. 
Till man after man the contention gave 

o'er, 
Outstretch'd on the rushes that strew'd the 

hall floor ; 
And the tempest within, having ceased its 

wild rout. 
Gave place to the tempest that thunder'd 

without. 



on the plain, — 
"Shall wake and give food to hernurselings 

again, 
The face of his father will Harold review ; 
Till then, aged Heathen, young Christian, 

idieu ! " 



Priest, monk, and prelate, stood aghast, 
As through the pageant the heathen pass'd. 
A cross-bearer out of his saddle he flung. 
Laid his hand on the pommel, and into it 

sprung. 
Loud was the shriek, and deep the groan. 
When the holy sign on the earth was 

thrown ! 
The fierce old Count imsheathed his brand, 
But the calmer prelate stay'd his hand. 
" Let him pass free ! — Heaven knows its 

hour, — 
But he must own repentance's power, 
Pray and weep, and penance bear, 
Ere he hold land by the Tyne and the 

Wear." 
Thus in scorn and in wrath from his fatner 

is gone 
Young Harold the Dauntless, Count Witi- 

kind's son. 

XIII. 

High was the feasting in Witikind's hall, 
Revell'd priests, soldiers, and pagans, and 

all ; 
And e'en the good Bishop was fain to en- 
dure 
The scandal, which time and instruction 

might cure : 
It were dangerous, he deem'd, at the first to 

restrain, 
In his wine and his wassail, a half-christen'd 

Dane. 
The mead flow'd around, and the ale was 

drain'd dry. 
Wild was the laughter, the song, and the 

cry; 



Lay Flaxen-hair'd Gunnar, old Ermen- 

garde's son ; 
In the train of Lord Harold that Page was 

the first, 
For Harold in childhood had Ermengarde 

nursed ; 
And grieved was young Gunnar his master 

should roam, 
Unhoused and unfriended, an exile from 

home. 
He heard the deep thunder, the plashing of 

rain, 
He saw the red lightning through shot-hole 

and pane ; 
" And oh ! " said the Page, " on the shel- 
terless wold 
Lord Harold is wandering in darkness and 

cold! 
What though he was stubborn, and way- 
ward, and wild, 
He endured me because I was Ermen- 

garde'^^child, — 
And often Irom dawn till the set of the sun. 
In the chase, by his stirrup, unbidden I run ; 
I would I were older, and knighthood could 

bear, 
I would soon quit the banks of the Tyne 

and the Wear ; 
For my mother's command, with her last 

parting breath, 
Bade me follow her nursling in life and to 

death. 

XV. 

" It pours and it thunders, it lightens 
amain, 

As if Lok, the Destroyer, had burst from 
his chain I 

Accursed by the Church and expell'd by his 
sire, 

Nor Christian nor Dane give him shelter or 
fire. 

And this tempest what mortal may house- 
less endure ? 

Unaided, unmantled, he dies on the moor. 





HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 



315 



Whate'er comes of Gunnar, he tarries not 

here." 
He leapt from his couch and he grasp'd to 

his spear ; 
Sought the hall of the feast. Undisturb'd 

by his tread, 
The vvassailers slept fast as the sleep of the 

dead : 
■* Ungrateful and bestial ! " his anger broke 

forth, 
"To forget 'mid your goblets the pride of 

the North ! 
And you, ye cowl'd priests, who have plenty 

in store, 
Must give Gunnar for ransom a palfrey and 

ore." 

XVI. 

Then, heeding full little of ban or of curse. 
He has seized on the Prior of Jorvaulx's 

purse : 
Saint Meneholt's Abbot next morning has 

miss'd 
His mantle, deep furr"d from the cape to 

the wrist • 
The Seneschal's keys from his belt he has 

ta'en, 
(Well drench'd on that eve was old Hilder- 

brand's brain.) 
To the stable-yard he made his way, 
And mounted the Bishop's palfrey gay. 
Castle and hamlet behind him has cast. 
And right on his way to the moorland has 

pass'd. 
Sore snorted the palfrey, unused to face 
A weather so wild at so rash a pace ; 
So long he snorted, so loud he neigh'd. 
There answer'd a steed that was bound 

beside, 
And the red flash of lightning show'd there 

where lay 
His master, Lord Harold, outstretch'd on 

the clay. 

XVII. 

Up he started, and thunder'd out, " Stand ! " 
And raised the club in his deadly hand. 
The flaxen-hair'd Gunnar his purpose told, 
Show'd the palfrey and profferr'd the gold, 
" Back, back, and home, thou simple 

boy ! 
Thou canst not share my grief or joy : 
Have I not mark'd thee wail and cry 
When thou hast seen a sparrow die ? 
And canst thou, as my follower should, 
Wade ankle-deep through foeman's blood, 
Dare mortal and immortal foe. 
The gods above, the fiends below, 



And man on earth, more hateful still, 
The very fountain-head of ill ? 
Desperate of life, and careless of death, 
Lover of bloodshed, and slaughter, and 

scathe, 
Such must thou be with me to roam. 
And such thou canst not be — back, and 

home 1 " 

XVIII. 

Young Gunnar shook like an aspen Dough, 
As he heard the harsh voice and beheld the 

dark brow. 
And half he repented his purpose and vow. 
But now to draw back were bootless shame, 
And he loved his master, so urged his 

claim : 
" Alas ! if my arm and my courage be weak, 
Bear with me awhile for old Ermengarde's 

sake ; 
Nor deem so lightly of Gimnar's faith. 
As to fear he would break it for peril of 

death. 
Have I not risk'd it to fetch thee this gold, 
This surcoat and mantle to fence thee from 

cold.? 
And, did I bear a baser mind, 
What lot remains if I stay behind ? 
The priests' revenge, thy father's wrath. 
A dungeon, and a shameful death." 



With gentler look Lord Harold eyed 
The Page, then turn'd his head aside; 
And either a tear did his eyelash stain. 
Or it caught a drop of the passing rain. 
'• Art thou an outcast, then t " quoth he ; 
■ • The meeter page to follow me." 
'Twere bootless to tell what climes they 

sought. 
Ventures achieved, and battles fought ; 
How oft with few, how oft alone. 
Fierce Harold's arm the field hath won. 
Men swore his eye, that flash'd so red 
When each other glance was quenched with 

dread. 
Bore oft a light of deadly flame. 
That ne'er from mortal courage came. 
Those limbs so strong, that mood so stem, 
That loved the couch of heath and fern. 
Afar from hamlet, tower, and town ; 
More than to rest on driven down ; 
That stubborn frame, that sullen mood, 
Men deem'd must come of aught but good ; 
And they whisper'd, the great Master Fiend 

was at one 
With Harold the Dauntless, Count Witi- 

kind's son. 







310 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Years after years had cjone and fled, 

The ,s;ood old Prelate lies lapp'd in lead ; 

In the chapel still is shown 

His sculptured form on a marble stone, 

With staff and ring and scapulaire, 

And folded hands in the act of prayer. 

Saint Cuthbert's mitre is resting now 

On the haughty Saxon, bold Aldingar's 

brow; 
The power of his crozier he loved to extend 
O'er whatever would break, or whatever 

would bend ; 
And now hath he clothed him in cope and 

m pall, 
And the Chapter of Durham has met at his 

call. 
" And hear ye not, brethren," the proud 

Bishop said, 
'* That our vassal, the Danish Count Witi- 

kind's dead ? 
All his gold and his goods hath he given 
To holy Church for the love of Heaven, 
And hj^d founded a chantry with stipend 

and dole. 
That priests and that beadsmen may pray 

for his soul : 
Harold his son is wanderifig abroad, 
Dreaded by man and abhorr'd by God ; 
Meet it is not, that such should heir 
The lands of the Church on the Tyne and 

the Wear, 
And at her pleasure her hallow'd hands 
May now resume these wealthy lands. 

XXI. 

Answer'd good Eustace, a canon old, — 

" Harold is tameless, and furious, and bold ; 

Ever Renown blows a note of fame, 

And a note of fear, when she sounds his 

name ; 
Much of liloodshed and much of scathe 
Have been their lot who have waked his 

wrath. 
Leave him these lands and lordships still ; 
Heaven in its hour may change his will ; 
But if reft of gold, and of living bare, 
An evil counsellor is despair.'' 
More had he said, but the Prelate frown'd, 
And murmur'd his brethren who sate 

around, 
And with one consent have they given their 

doom. 
That the Church should the lands of Saint 

Cuthbert resume. 
So will'd the Prelate ; and canon and dean 
Gave to his judgment their loud amen. 



CANTO SECOND 



'Tis merry in greenwood — thus runs the old 

lay, — 
In the gladsome month of lively Mav, 
When the wild birds' song on stem and 
spray. 

Invites to forest bower ; 
Then rears the ash his airy crest, 
Then shines the birch in silver vest, 
And the beech in glistenmg leaves is drest. 
And dark between shows the oak's proud 
breast, 

Like a chieftain's frowning tower ; 
Though a thousand branches join their 

screen. 
Yet the broken sunbeams glance between, 
And tip the leaves with lighter green, 

With brighter tints the flower : 
Dull is the heart that loves not then 
The deep recess of the wildvvood glen. 
Where roe and red-deer find sheltering den, 

When the sun is in his power. 



Less merry, perchance, is the fading leaf 
That follows so soon on the gather' d sheaf, 

When the greenwood loses the name ; 
Silent is then the forest bound. 
Save the redbreast's note, and the rustling 

sound 
Of frost-nipt leaves that are dropping 

round. 
Or the deep-mouth'd cry of the distant 
hound 

That opens on his game : 
Yet then, too, I love the forest wide, 
Whether the sun in splendor ride, 
And gild its many-color'd side ; 
Or whether the soft or silvery haze, 
In vapory folds o'er the landscape strays, 
And half involves the woodland maze, 

Like an earlv widow's veil. 
Where wimpling tissue from the gaze 
The form half hides, and half betrays. 

Of beauty wan and pale. 



Fair Metelill was a woodland maid. 
Her father a rover of greenwood shade, 
By forest statutes undismay'd. 

Who lived by bow and quiver ; 
Well known was Wulfstane's archery, 
By merry Tyne both on moor and lea. 





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HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 31? 






lirough wooded Weardale's elens so free. 


VI. 




Well beside Stanhope's wildvvood tree, 


SONG. 






And well on Ganlesse river. 








Yet free though lie trespass'd on woodland 


" Lord William was bom in gilded J 
bov.'er. 


J 




game, 
More known and more fear'd was the wizard 


The heir of Wilton's lofty tower ; 








Yet better loves Lord William now 






Of Jutta of Rookhope, the Outlaw's dame; 
Fear' d when she frown'd was her eye of 
flame, 


To roam beneath wild Rookhope's brow ; 
And William has lived where ladies fair 
With gawds and jewels deck their hair, 






More fear'd when in wrath she laugh'd ; 


Yet better loves the dewdrops still 






For, then, 'twas said, more fatal true 


That pearls the locks of Metelill. 






I'o its dread aim her spell-glance flew. 


" The pious Palmer loves, I wis. 






Than when from Wulfstane's bended yew 


Saint Cuthbert's hallow'd beads to kiss 






Sprung forth the gray-goose shaft. 


But I, though simple girl I be. 
Might have such homage paid to me , 






!V. 


For did Lord William see me suit 






Yet had this fierce and dreaded pair, 
So Heaven decreed, a daughter fair ; 


This necklace of the bramble's fruit. 






He fain — but must not have his will — 






None brighter crown'd the bed, 


Would kiss the beads of Metelill. 






In Britain's bounds, of peer or prince, 


" My nurse has told rae many a tale, 






Nor hath, perchance, a lovelier since, 


How vows of love are weak and frail ; 






In this fair isle been bred. 


My mother says that courtly youth 






And nought of fraud, or ire, or ill, 


By rustic maid means seldom sooth, 






Was known to gentle Metelill, — 


What should they mean 'i it cannot be, 






A simple maiden she ; 


That such a warning's meant for me. 






The spells in dimpled smile that lie, 


For nought — oh ! nought of fraud or ill 






And a downcast blush, and the darts that fly 


Can William mean to Metelill ! " 






With the sidelong glance of a hazel eye. 








Were her arms and witchery. 


VII. 






So young so simple was she yet, 


Sudden she stops— and starts to feel 






She scarce could childhood's joys forget, 


A weighty hand, a glove of steel, 






And still she loved, in secret set 


Upon her shrinking shoulders laid; 






Beneath the greenwood tree, 


Fearful she turn'd, and saw, dismay'd, 






To plait the rushy coronet. 


A Knight in plate and mail array'd. 






And braid with flowers her looks of jet, 


His crest and bearing worn and fray'd. 






As when in infancy ; — 


His surcoat soil'd and riven, 






Yet could that heart, so simple, prove 


Form'd like that giant race of yore. 






The early dawn of stealing love : 


Whose long-continued crimes outwoie 






Ah ! gentle maid, beware ! 


The sufferance of Heaven. 






The power who, now so mild a guest 


Stern accents made his pleasure knowm, 






Gives dangerous yet delicious ze^i 


Though then he used his gentlest tone: 






To the calm pleasures of thy breast, 


" Maiden," he said, " sing forth thy glee^ 






Will soon, a tyrant o'er the rest, 


Start noi — sing on — it pleases me." 






Let none his empire share. 


vni. 






V. 


Secured within his powerful hold. 






To bend her knee, her hands to fold, 






One morn, in kirtle green array'd. 


Was all the maiden might ; 






Deep in the wood the maiden stray'd, 


And " Oh ! forgive," she faintly said, 






And, where a fountain sprung. 


" The terrors of a simple maid, 






She sate her down, unseen, to thread 


If thou art mortal wight ? 






The scarlet berry's mimic iiraid, 


But if — of such strange tales are told — 






And while the beads she strung, 


Unearthly warrior of the wold, 1 


■^ 




Like the blithe lark, whose carol gay 


Thou comest to chide mine accents bold, 






Gives a good-morrow to the day, 


My mother, Jutta, knows the spell, 




[ 


3^ 


c_ 


So lightsoniely she sung. 


At noon and midnight pleasing well 

C ^_5 


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1 

1 




3i8 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 




The disembodied ear. 
Oh ! let her powerful charms atone 
For aught my rashness may have done, 

And cease thy grasp of fear." 
Then laugh'd the Knight — his laughter's 

sound 
Half in the hollow helmet drown'd ; 
His barred vizor then he raised, 
And steady on the maiden gazed. 
He smooth'd his brows, as best he might, 
To the dread calm of autumn night, 

When sinks the tempest roar ; 
Yet still the cautious fisher's eye 
The clouds, and fear the gloomy sky, 

And haul their barks on shore. 

IX. 

" Damsel," he said, " be wise and learn 
Matters of weight and deep concern : 

From distant realms I come, 
And^wanderer long, at length have plann'd 
In this my native Northern land 

To seek myself a home. 
Nor that alone — a mate I seek ; 
She must be gentle, soft, and meek, — 

No lordly dame for me ; 
Myself am something rough of mood. 
And feel the fire of royal blood. 
And therefore do not hold it good 

To match in my degree. 
Then, since coy maidens say my face 
Is harsh, my form devoid of grace. 
For a fair lineage to provide, 
'Tis meet that my selected bride 
In lineaments be fair ; 
I love thine well — till now I ne'er 
Look'd patient on a face of fear. 
But now that tremulous sob and tear 

Become thy beauty rare. 
One kiss — nay, damsel, coy it not! — 
And now go seek thy parents' cot. 
And say, a bridegroom soon I come, 
To woo my love, and bear her home." 

X. 

Home sprung the maid without a pause. 

As leveret 'scaped from greyhound's jaws ; 

But still she look'd, howe'er distress'd. 

The secret in her boding breast ; 

Dreading her sire, who oft forbade 

Her steps should stray to distant glade 

Night came — to her accustom'd nook 

Her distaff aged Jutta took, 

And by the lamp's imperfect glow. 

Rough Wulfstane trimm'd his shafts and 

bow. 
Sudden and clamorous, from the ground 
Upstarted slumbering brach and hound ; 



Loud knocking next the lodge alarms, 
And Wulfstane snatches at his arms. 
When open flew the yielding door, 
And that grim Warrior press'd the floor. 



" All peace be here. — What ! none replies, 
Dismiss your fears, and your surprise. 
'Tis I— that Maid hath told my tale,— 
Or, trembler, did thy courage fail ? 
It recks not — It is I demand 
Fair Metelill in marriage band ; 
Harold the Dauntless I, whose name 
Is brave men's boast and caitiff's shame.'' 
The parents sought each other's eyes. 
With awe, resentment, and surprise : 
Wulfstane, to quarrel prompt, began 
The stranger's size and thewes to scan ; 
But as he scann'd his courage sunk, 
And from unequal strife he shrunk, 
Then forth, to blight and blemish, flies 
The harmful curse from Jutta's eyes ; 
Yet, fatal howsoe'er, the spell 
On Harold innocently fell ! 
And disappointment and amaze 
Were in the witch's wilder gaze. 



But soon the wit of woman woke, 
And to the Warrior mild she spoke : 
" Her child was all too young." — " A toy, 
The refuge of a maiden coy." — 
Again, " A powerful baron's heir 
Claims in her heart an interest fair." — 
" A trifle — whisper in his ear. 
That Harold is a suitor here ! " — 
Baffled at length she sought delay : 
" Would not the knight till morning stay r 
Late was the hour — he there might rest 
Till morn, their lodge's honor'd guest." 
Such were her words, — her craft might cast, 
Her honor'd guest should sleep his last : 
'' No, not to-night — but soon," he swore, 
" He would return, nor leave them more." 
The threshold then his huge stride crost, 
And soon he was in darkness lost. 

XIII. 

Appall'd a while the parents stood. 
Then changed their fear to angry mood, 
And foremost fell their words of ill 
On unresisting Metelill : 
Was she not caution'd and forbid, 
Forewarn'd, implored, accused, and chid, 
And must she still to greenwood roam, 
To marshal such misfortune home.'' 



\ 



^ 





JIAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 



3iy 



" Hence, minion — to thy chamber hence- 
There prudence learn and penitence." 
She went — her lonely couch to steep 
In tears which absent lovers weep ; 
Or if she gain'd a troubled sleep, 
Fierce Harold's suit was still the theme 
And terrgr of her feverish dream. 



Scarce was she gone, her dame and sire ^ 

Upon each other bent their ire ; 

" A woodsman thou, and hast a spear. 

And couldst thou such an insult bear ? " 

Sullen he said, " A man contends 

With men, a witch witli sprites and fiends ; 

Not to mere mortal wight belong 

Von gloomy brow and frame so strong 

But thou — is this thy piomise fair, 

That your Lord William, wealthy <*ir 

To Ulrick, Baron of Witton-le-Wear, 

Should Metelill to altar bear? 

Do all the spells thou boast'st as thine 

Serve but to slay some peasant's kine, 

His grain in autumn's storms to steep, 

Or through fog and fen to sweep. 

And hag-ride some poor rustic's sleep ? 

Is such mean mischief worth the fame 

Of sorceress and witch's name .? 

Fame, which with all men's wish conspires, 

With thy deserts and my desires. 

To damn thy corpse to penal fires.'' 

Out on thee, witch ! aroint ! aroint ! 

What now shall put thy schemes in joint ? 

What save this trusty arrow's point, 

From the dark dingle when it flies. 

And he who meets it gasps and dies.' 



Stern she replied, " I will not wage 

War with thy folly or thy rage ; 

But ere the morrow's sun be low, 

Wulfstane of Rookhope, thou shalt know, 

If I can venge me on a foe. 

Believe the while, that whatsoe'er 

I spoke, in ire, of bow and spear, 

It is not Harold's destiny 

The death of pilfer' d deer to die. 

But he, and thou, and yon pale moon, 

(That shall be yet more pallid soon, 

Before she sink behind the dell,) 

Thou, she, and Harold too. shall tell 

What jutta knows of charm or spell." 

Thus muttermg, to the door she bent 

Her wayward steps, and forth she went, 

And left alone the moody sire. 

To cherish or to slake his irf< 



Far faster than belong'd to age 

Has Tutta made her pilgrimage. 

\ finest has met her as she pass'd, 

And cross'd himself and stood aghast-. 

She traced a hamlet — not a cur 

His throat would ope, his foot would stir; 

By crouch, by trembling, and by groan, 

They made her hated presence known 1 

But when she trode the sable fell, 

Were wilder sounds her way to tell, — 

For far was heard the fox's yell, 

The black-cock waked and faintly crew, 

Scream'd o'er the moss the scared curlew ;• 

Where o'er the cataract the oak 

Lay slant, was heard the raven's croak ; 

The mountain-cat, which sought his prey, 

Glared, scream'd, and started from her way 

Such music cheer'd her journey lone 

To the deep dell and rocking stone ; 

There, with unhallow'd hymn of praise, 

She called a God of heathen days. 



INVOCATION. 

" From thy Pomeranian throne. 
Hewn in rock of living stone. 
Where, to thy godhead faithful yet. 
Bend Esthonian, Finn, and Lett, 
And their swords in vengeance whet. 
That shall make thine altars wet, 
Wet and red for ages more 
With the Christians' hated gore, — 
Hear me ! Sovereign of the Rock, 
Hear me ! mighty Zemebock I 

'• Mightiest of the mighty known, 
Here thy wonders have been shown ; 
Hundred tribes in various tongue 
Oft have here thy praises sung ; 
Down that stone with Runic seam'd. 
Hundred victims' blood hath stream'd ' 
Now one woman comes alone. 
And but wets it with her own. 
The last, the feeblest of thy flock, — 
Hear — and be present, Zernebock ! 

" Hark ! he comes ! the night-blast cold 
Wilder sweeps along the wold ; 
The cloudless moon grows dark and dim. 
And bristling hair and quaking Umb 
Proclaim the Master Demon nigh, — 
Those who view his form .shall die 1 
Lo ! I stoop and veil my head; 
Thou who ridest the tempest dread, 
Shaking hill and rending oak — 
Spare me i spare me ! Zernebock. 






V 





320 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



" He comes not yet ! shall cold delay 
Thy votaress at her need repay ' 
Thou — shall I call thee god or fiend ? — 
Let ethers on thy mood attend 
With prayer and ritual — Jutta's arms 
Are necromantic words and charms ; 
Mine is the spell, that, utter'd once, 
Shall wake Thy Master from his trance. 
Shake liis red mansion-house of pain. 
And burst his seven-times-twisted chain 1 — 
So ! com'st thou ere the spell is spoke? 
I own thy presence, Zernebock. " — 



" Daughter of dust," the Deep Voice said, 

— Shook while it spoke the vale for dread, 

Rock'd on the base that massive stone, 

The Evil Deity to own,— 

" Daughter of dust ! not mine the power 

Thou seek'st on Harold's fatal hour. 

'Twixt heaven and hell there is a strife 

Waged for his soul and for his life, 

And fain would we tiie combat win, 

And snatch him in his hour of sin. 

There is a star now rising red. 

That threats him with an influence dread : 

Woman, thine arts of malice whet, 

To use the space before it set. 

Involve him with the Church in strife, 

Push on adventurous chance his life ; 

Ourself will in the hour of need, 

As best we may thy counsels speed." 

So ceased the Voice ; for seven leagues 

round 
Each hamlet started at the sound ; 
But slept again, as slowly died 
Its thunders on the hill's brown side. 



" And is this all,'' said Jiitta stern, 
That thou canst teach and I can learn ? 
Hence ! to the land <>l fog and waste, 
There fittest is thine influence placed, 
Thou powerless, sluggish deity 1 
But ne'er shall I3riton bend the knee 
Again before so poor a god." 
She struck the altar with her lod : 
Slight was the touch, as when at need 
A damsel stirs her tardy steed ; 
But to the blow the stone gave place, 
And, starting from its balanced base, 
Roll'd thundering down the moonlight dell,- 
Re-echo' d moorland, rock, and fell ; 
Into the moonlight tarn it dash'd. 
Their shores the sounding sura;es lash'd, 
And there was ripple, rage, and foam ; 



But on that lake, so dark and lone, 
Placid and pale the moonbeam shone 
As Jutta hied her home. 



CANTO THIRD. 



Gr.'VV towers of Durham ! there was once 

a time 
# I view'd your battlements with such vague 

hope. 
As brightens life in its first dawning 

prime ; 
Not that e'en then came within fancy's 

scope 
A vision vain of mitre, throne, or cope ; 
Yet, gazing on the venerable hall, 
Her flattering dreams would in perspective 

ope 
Some reverend room, some prebendary's 

stall,— 
And thus Hope me deceived as she de- 

ceiveth all. 

Well yet 1 love thy mix'd and massive 

piles. 
Half church of God, half castle 'gainst the 

Scot, 
And long to roam these venerable aisles. 
With records stored of deeds long since 

forgot ; 
There might I share my Surtees' happier 

lot. 
Who leaves at will his patrimonial field 
To ransack every crypt and hallow'd 

spot. 
And from oblivion rend the spoils they 

yield. 
Restoring priestly chant and clang o£ 

knightly shield. 

Vain is the wish — since other cares de- 
mand 

Each vacant hour, and in another clime ; 

But still that northern harp invites my 
hand. 

Which tells the wonder of thine earlies 
time ; 

And fain its numbers would I now com- 
mand 

To paint the beauties of that dawning 
fair. 

When Harold, gazing from its lofty stand. 

Upon the western heights of Beaure- 
paire. 
Saw Saxon Eadmer's towers begirt by wind- 
ing Wear. 







HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS, 



321 



Fair on the half-seen stream the sun- 
beams danced, 

Betraymg it beneath the woodland bank, 

And fair between the Gothic turrets 
glanced 

Broad lights, and shadows fell on front 
and flank 

And girdled in the massive donjon Keep, 

And from their circuit peal'd o'er bush 
and bank 

The mam bell with summons long and 
deep. 
And echo answer'd still with long-resound- 
ing sweep. 

III. 

The morning mists rose from the ground, 
Each merry bird awaken' d round, 

As if in revelry ; 
Afar the bugles' clanging sound 
Call'd to the chase the lagging hound; 

The gale breathed soft and free. 
And seem'd to linger on its way 
To catch fresh odors from the spray. 
And waved it in its wanton play 

So light and gamesomely. 
The scenes which morning beams reveal, 
Its sounds to hear, its gales to feel 
In all their fragrance round him steal, 
It melted Harold's heart of steel, 

And, hardly wotting why, 
He doff'd his helmet's gloomy pride, 
And hung it on a tree beside. 

Laid mace and falchion by. 
And on the greensward sate him down. 
And from his dark habitual frown 

Relax'd his rugged brow — 
Whoever hath the doubtful task 
Frpm that stern Dane a boon to ask, 

Were wise to ask it now. 



His place beside young Gunnar took, 
And mark'd his master's softening look, 
And in his eye's dark mirror spied 
The gloom of stormy thoughts subside, 
And cautious watch'd the fittest tide 

To speak a warning word. 
So whe; the torrent's billows shrink. 
The timid pilgrim on the brink 
Waits long to see them wave and sink. 

Ere he dare brave the ford, 
And often after doubtful pause. 
His step advances or withdraws : 



Fearful to move the slumbering ire 
Of his stern lord thus stood the squire, 

Till Harold raised his eye, 
That glanced as when athwart the shroud 
Of the dispersing tempest-cloud 

The bursting sunbeams fly. 



" Arouse thee, son of Ermengarde, 
Offspring of prophetess and bard ! 
Take harp and greet this lovely prime 
With some high strain of Runic rhymC; 
Strong, deep, and powerful ! Peal it round 
Like that loud bell's sonorous sound. 
Yet wild by fits, as when the lay 
Of bird and bugle hail the day. 
Such was my grandsire Eric's sport. 
When dawn gleam'd on his martial court. 
Heymar the Scald, with harp's high sound, 
Summon'd the chiefs who slept around ; 
Couch'd on the spoils of wolf and bear. 
They roused like lions from their lair, 
Then rush'd in emulation forth 
To enhance the glories of the North. — 
Proud Eric, mightiest of thy race. 
Where is thy shadowy resting place? 
In wild Valhalla hast thou quaff'd 
From foeman's skull metheglin draught 
Or wanderest where thy cairn was piled 
To frown o'er oceans wide and wild ? 
Or have the milder Christians given 
Thy refuge in their peaceful heaven ? 
Where'er thou art, to thee are known 
Our toils endured, our trophies won, 
Our wars, our wanderings, and our woes." 
He ceased, and Gunnar's song arose. 



SONG. 

" Hawk and osprey screamed for joy 
O'er the beetling cliffs of Hoy, 
Crimson foam the beach o'erspread. 
The heath was dyed with darker%ed. 
When o'er Eric, Inguar's son, 
Dane and Northman piled the stone ; 
Singing wild the war-son stern, 
' Rest thee. Dweller of the Cairn ! ' 

" Where eddying currents foam and boil 
By Bersa's burgh and Grsemsay's isle, 
The seaman sees a martial form 
Half-mingled with the mist and storm. 
In anxious awe he bears away 
To moor his bark in Stromna's bay. 
And murmurs from the bounding stem, 
' Rest thee. Dweller of the Cairn 1 ' 





-4- 



322 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



" What cares disturb the mighty dead ? 

Each honor' d rite was duly paid ; 

No daring hand thy helm unlaced, 

Thy sword, thy shield, were near thee 

placedj — 
Thy flinty couch no tear profaned, 
Without, with hostile blood was stain'd ; 
Within, 'twas lined with moss and 

fern, — 
Then rest thee, Dweller of the Cairn ! " 

" He may not rest: from realms afar 
Comes voice of battle and of war, 
Of conquest wrought with bloody hand 
On Carmel's cliffs and Jordan's strand. 
When Odin's warlike son could daunt 
The turban'd race of Termagaunt." 



•' Peace," said the Knight, " the noble 

Scald 
Our warlike fathers' deeds recall' d. 
But never strove to soothe the son 
With tales of what himself ha'd done. 
At Odin's board the bard sits high 
Whose harp ne'er stoop'd to flattery ; 
But highest he whose daring lay 
Hath dared unwelcome truths to say." 
With doubtful smile young Gunnar 

eyed 
His master's looks and nought replied — 
But well that smile his master led 
To construe what he left unsaid. 
" Is it to me, thou timid youth. 
Thou fear'st to speak unwelcome truth ? 
My soul no more thy censure grieves 
Than frosts rob laurels of their leaves. 
Say on — and yet — beware the rude 
And wild distemper of my blood; 
Loth were 1 that mine ire should wrong 
The youth that bore my shield so long. 
And who in service constant still. 
Though weak in frame, art strong in 

will."-*- 
"Oh!" quoth the page, "even there de- 
pends 
My counsel — there my warning tends — 
Oft seems as of my master's breast 
Some demon were the sudden guest ; 
Then at the first misconstrued word 
His hands is on the mace and sword. 
From her firm seat his wisdom driven. 
His life to countless dangers given. — 
O ! would that Gunnar could suffice, 
To be the fiend's last sacrifice. 
So that when glutted with my gore, 
He fled and tempted thee no more J " 



Then waved his hand, and shook his head 
The impatient Dane, while thus he said = 
" Profane not, youth — it is not thine 
To judge the spirit of our line — 
The bold Berserkar's rage divine, 
Through whose inspiring, deeds are 

wrought 
Past human strength and human thought 
When full upon his gloomy soul 
The champion feels the influence roll, 
He swims the lake, he leaps the wall — 
Heeds not the depth, nor plumbs the fall - 
Unshielded, mail-less, on he goes 
Singly against a host of foes ; 
Their spears he holds like wither'd reeds, 
Their mail like maiden's silken weeds ; 
One 'gainst a hundred will he strive. 
Take countless wounds and yet survive. 
Then rush the eagles to his cry 
Of slaughter and of victory,- — 
.^nd blood he quaffs like Odin's bowl, 
Deep drinks his sword, — deep drinks his 

soul ; 
And all that meet him in his ire 
He gives to ruin, rout, and fire ; 
Then, like gorged lion seeks some den. 
And couches till he's man agen. — 
Thou know'st the signs of look and limb, 
When 'gins that rage to overbrim — 
Thou know'st when I am moved, and 

why ; 
And when thou seest me roll mine eye, 
Set my teeth thus, and stamp my foot, 
Regard thy safety and be mute ; 
But else speak boldy out whate'er 
Is fitting that a knight should hear. 
I love thee, youth. Thy lay has power 
Upon my dark and snllen hour; — 
So Christian monks are wont to say 
Demons of old were charmed away ; 
Then fear not I will rashly deem 
111 of thy speech, whate'er the theme '' 

IX. 

As down some strait in doubt and dread 
The watchful pilot drops the lead. 
And, cautious in the midst to steer. 
The shoaling channel sounds with fear-* 
So, lest on dangerous ground he swerves. 
The Page his master's brow observed, 
Pausing at intervals to fling 
His hand o'er the melodious string, 
And to his moody breast apply 
The soothing charm of harmony, 
While hinted half, and half exprest. 
This warning song convey'd the rest. — 









HAROLD THE DA UNTLESS. 



323 -- 



" 111 fares the bark with tackle riven, 
And ill when on the breakers driven, — 
111 when the storm-sprite shrieks in air. 
And the scared mermaid tears her hair ; 
But worse when on her helm the hand 
Of some false traitor holds command. 

2. 
" III fares the fainting Palmer, placed 
'Mid Hebron's rocks or Rana's waste, — 
III when the scorching sun is high. 
And the expected font is dry, — 
Worse when liis guide o'er sand and heath. 
The barbarous Copt, has plann'd his death. 



" 111 fares the Knight with buckler cleft, 

And ill when of his helm bereft, — 

111 when his steed to earth is flung, 

Or from his grasp his falchion wrung ; 

But worse, if instant ruin token, 

When he lists rede by woman spoken.'' — 



" How now, fond boy ? — Canst thou thmk 

ill," 
Said Harold, " of fair Metelill t "— 
" She may be fair," the Page replied, 

As through the strings he ranged,^ 
" She may be fair ; but yet,'' he cried, 

And then the strain he changed, 



" She may be fair," he sang, " but yet 

Far fairer have I seen 
Than she, for all her locks of jet. 

And eyes so dark and sheen. 
Were I a Danish knight in arms. 

As one day I may be. 
My heart should own no foreign charms,- 

A Danish maid for me. 



" I love my father's northern land. 

Where the dark pine-trees grow. 
And the bold Baltic's echoing strand 

Looks o'er each grassy oe.* 
I love to mark the lingering sun, 

From Denmark loth to go. 
And leaving on the billows bright. 
To cheer the sliort-lived summer night, 

A path of ruddy glow. 



* Oe, Island. 



" But most the northern maid I love, 

With breast like Denmark's snow. 
And form as fair as Denmark's pine. 
Who loves with purple heath to twine 

Her locks of sunny glow ; 
And sweetly blends that shade of gold 

With the cheek's rosy hue, 
And Faith might for her mirror hold 

That eye of matchless blue. 

4- 
" 'Tis hers the manly sports to love 

That southern maidens fear, 
To bend the bow by stream and grove, 

And lift the hunter's spear. 
She can her chosen champion's flight 

With eye undazzled see. 
Clasp him victorious from the strife, 
Or on his corpse yield up her life, — 

A Danish maid for me ! " 

XI. 

Then smiled the Dane — " Thou canst so 

well 
The virtues of our maidens tell. 
Half could I wish my choice had been 
Blue eyes, and hair of golden sheen, 
And lofty soul ; — -yet what of ill 
Hast thou to charge on Metelill ? " — 
'' Nothing on her," young Gunnar said, 
" But her base sire's ignoble trade. 
Her mother, too— the general fame 
Hath given to Jutta evil name. 
And in her gray eye is a flame 
Art cannot hide, nor fear can tame. — 
That sordid woodman's peasant cot 
Twice have thine honor'd footsteps 

sought. 
And twice return'd with such ill rede 
As sent thee on some desperate deed-" — 

XII. 

" Thou errest ; Jutta wisely said,. 

He that comes suitor to a maid. 

Ere link'd in marriage, should provide 

Lands and a dwelling for his bride — 

My father's, by the Tyne and Wear, 

I have reclaim'd." — " O, all too dear, 

And all too dangerous the prize. 

E'en were it won," young Gunnar cries ; — 

" And then this Jutta's fresh device, 

That thou shouldst seek, a heathen Dane, 

From Durham's priests a boon to gam. 

When thou hast left their vassals slain 

In their own halls!" — Flash'd Harold's 

eye, 
Thunder'd his voice — " False Page, you lief 





324 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The castle, hall and •'ower, is mine, 
Built by old Witikind on Tyne. 
The wild-cat will defend his den. 
Fights for her nest the timid wren ; 
And think'st thou I'll forego my right 
For dread of monk or monkish knight ? 
Up and away, that deepening bell 
Doth of the Bishop's conclave tell. 
Thither will I, in manner due. 
As Jutta bade, my claim to sue; 
And, if to right me they are loth. 
Then woe to church and chapter both ! " 
Now shift the scene, and let the curtain 

fall, 
And our next entry be Saint Cuthbert's 

hall. 



CANTO IV, 



Full many a bard hath sung the solemn 

gloom 
Of the long Gothic aisle and stone-ribb'd 

roof, 
O'er-canopying shrine, and gorgeous 

tomb. 
Carved screen, an altar glimmering far 

aloof. 
And blending with the shade, — a matchless 

proof 
Of high devotion, which hath now wax'd 

cold ; 
Yet legends say, that Luxury's brute 

hoof 
Intruded oft within such sacred fold. 
Like step of Bel's false priest, track'd in his 

fane of old. 

Well pleased am I, howe'er, that when the 

rout 
Of our rude neighbors whilome deign'd 

to come, 
Uncaird, and eke unwelcome, to sweep 

out 
And cleanse our chancel from the rags of 

Rome, 
They spoke not on our ancient fane the 

doom 
To which their bigot zeal gave o'er their 

own. 
But spared the martyr'd saint and storied 

tomb, 
Though papal miracles had graced the 

stone, 
And though the aisles still loved the organ's 

swelling tone. 



And deem not, though 'tis now my part to 

paint 
A Prelate sway'd by love of power and 

gold, 
That all who wore the mitre of our Saint 
Like to ambitious Aldingar I hold ; 
Since both in modern times and days of 

old ■ _ 

It sate on those whose virtues might atone 
Their predecessors' 'frailties trebly told ; 
Matthew and Morton we as such .iiay 

own — 
And such (if fame speak truth) the honor'd 

Barrington. 



But now to earlier and to ruder times. 
As subject meet, I tune my rugged 

rhymes. 
Telling how fairly the chapter was met, 
And rood and books m seemly order set ; 
Huge brass-clasp'd volumes, which the 

hand 
Of studious priest but rarely scann'd, 
Now on fair carved desk display'd, 
'Twas theirs the solemn scene to aid. 
O'erhead with many a scutcheon graced, 
And quaint it devices interlaced, 
A labyrinth of crossing rows, 
The roof in lessening arches shows ; 
Beneath its shade placed proud and high. 
With footstool and with canopy, 
Sate Aldingar, — and prelate ne'er 
More haughty graced Saint Cuthbert's 

chair ; 
Canons and deacons were placed below, 
[n due degree and lengthen'd row. 
Unmoved and silent each sat there. 
Like image in his oaken chair ; 
Nor head, nor hand, nor foot they stirr'd. 
Nor lock of hair, nor tress of beard ; 
And of their eyes severe alone 
The twinkle show'd they were not stone. 



The Prelate was to speech address'd. 
Each head sunk reverent on each breast ; 
But ere his voice was heard — without 
Arose a wild tumultuous shout. 
Offspring of wonder mix'd with fear, 
Such as in crowded streets we hear 
Hailing the flames, that, bursting out, 
Attract yet scare the rabble rout. 
Ere it had ceased, a giant hand 
Shook oaken door and iron band. 





HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS, 



325 



Till oak and iron both gave way, 
Clash'd the long bolts, the hinges bray, 
And, ere upon angel or paint they can 

call, 
Stands Harold the Dauntless in midst of 
the hall. 

IV. 

" Now save ye, my masters, both rochet and 
rood, 

From Bishop with mitre to Deacon with 
hood ! 

For here stands Count Harold, old Witi- 
kind's son. 

Come to sue for the lands wliich his ances- 
tors won." 

The Prelate look'd round him with sore 
troubled eye, 

Unwilling to grant, yet afraid to deny ; 

While each Canon and Deacon who heard 
the Dane speak. 

To be safely at home would have fasted a 
week : — 

Then Aldingar roused him, and answer'd 
again, 

" Thou Sliest for a boon which thou canst 
not obtain; 

The Church hath no fiefs for an unchristen'd 
Dane. 

Thy father was wise, and his treasure hath 
given, 

That the priests of a chantry might hymn 
him to heaven ; 

And the fiefs which whilome he possess'd as 
his due, 

Have lapsed to the Church, and been grant- 
ed anew 

To Anthony Conyers and Alberic Vere, 

For the service Sainr Cuthbett's bless'd 
banner to bear. 

When the bands of the North come to foray 
the Wear ; 

Then disturb not our conclave with wrang- 
ling or biame. 

But in peace and in patience pass hence as 
ye came." 

V. 

Loud laugh'd the stern Pagan, — " They're 

free from the care 
Of fief and of service, both Conyers and 

Vere, — 
Six feet of your chancel is all they will need, 
A buckler of stone and a corslet of lead. — 
Ho, Gunnar ! — the tokens;" — and, sever'd 

anew, 
A head and a hand on the altar he 

threw. 



Then shudder'd with terror both Canon and 

Monk, 
They knew the glazed eye and the counte> 

nance shrunk. 
And of Anthony Conyers the half-grizzled 

hair. 
And the scar on the hand of Sir Alberic 

Vere. 
There was not a churchman or priest that 

was there. 
But grew pale at the sight, and betook him 

to prayer 

VI. 

Count Harold laugh'd at their looks of 

fear : 
" Was this the hand should your banner 

bear ? 
Was that the head should wear the casque 
In battle at the Church's task ? 
Was it to such you gave the place 
Of Harold with the heavy mace? 
Find me between the Wear and Tyne 
A knight will wield this club of mine, — 
Give him my fiefs, and I will say 
There's wit beneath the cowl of gray." 
He raised it, rough with many a stain, 
Caught from crush'd skull and spouting 

brain ! 
He wheel' d it that it shrilly sung, 
And the aisles echo'd as it swung. 
Then dash'd it down with sheer descent, 
And split King Osric's monument. — 
" How like ye this music 1 How trow ye 

the hand 
That can wield such a mace may be reft of 

its land ? 
No answer ? — I spare ye a space to agree, 
And Saint Cuthbert inspire you, a saint if 

he be. 
Ten strides through your chancel, ten 

strokes on your bell, 
And again I am with you — grave fathers, 

farewell." 

VJI. 

He turn'd from their presence, he clash'd 

the oak door, 
And the clang of his stride died away on the 

floor ; 
And his head from his bosom the Prelate 

uprears 
With a ghost-seer's look when the ghost 

disappears. 
" Ye Priests of Saint Cuthbert, now give 

me your rede. 
For never of counsel had Bishop more 

need 1 







326 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Were the arch-fiend incarnate in flesh and 

in bone, 
The language, the look, and the laugh were 

his own. 
In the bounds of Saint Cuthbert there is not 

a knight 
Dare confront in our quarrel yon gobl.'.n in 

fight ; 
Then rede me aright to his claim to reply, 
'Tis unlawful to grant, and 'tis death to 

deny.'' 

VIII. 

On venison and malmsie that morning had 

fed, 
The Cellarer Vinsauf — 'twas thus that he 

said: 
" Delay till to-morrow the Chapter's reply ; 
Let the feast be spread fair, and the wine be 

pour'd high : 
If he's mortal he drinks, — if he drinks, he is 

ours — 
His bracelets of iron, — hiij bed in our 

towers." 
This man had a laughing eye. 
Trust not, friends, when such you spy ; 
A beaker's depth he well could drain, 
Revel, sport, and jest amain — 
The haunch of the deer and the grape's 

bright dye 
Never bard loved them better than I ; 
But sooner than Vinsauf fill'd me my wine, 
Pass'd me his jest, and laugh'd at mine, 
Though the buck were of Bearpark, of Bor- 
deaux the vine. 
With the dullest hermit I'd rather dine 
On an oaken cake and a draught of the 

Tyne. 

IX. 

Walwayn the leech spoke next — he knew 
Each plant that loves the sun and dew, 
But special those whose juice can gain 
Dominion o'er the blood and brain ; 
The peasant who saw him by pale moon- 
beam 
Gathering such herbs by bank and stream, 
Deem'd his thin form and soundless tread 
Were those of wanderer from the dead. — 
"Vinsauf, thy wine," he said, "hath 

power.. 
Our gyves are heavy, strong our tower ; 
Yet three drops from this flask of mine, 
More strong than dungeons, gyves, or wine, 
Shall give him prison under ground 
More da>-k, more narrow, more profound. 
Short rede, good rede, let Harold have — 
A dog's death, and a heathen's grave." 



I have lain on a sick man's bed. 
Watching for hours for the leech's tread, 
As if I deem'd that his presence alone 
Were of power to bid my pain begone ; 
I have listed his words of comfort given, 
As if to oracles from heaven ; 
I have counted his steps from my chamber 

door. 
And bless'd them when they were heard no 

more ; — 
But sooner than Walwayn my sick couch 

should nigh, 
My choice were, by leech-craft unaided, to 

die. 

X. 

" Such service done in fervent zeal 
The Church may pardon and conceal," 
The doubtful Prelate said, " but ne'er 
The counsel ere the act should hear.— 
Anselm of Jarrow, advise us now. 
The stamp of wisdom is on thy brow ; 
Thy days, thy nightS; in cloister pent, 
Are still to mystic learning lent ; — 
Anselm of Jarrow, in thee is my hope, 
Thou well may'st give counsel to Prelate or 
Pope." 

XI. 

Answer'd the Prior — " 'Tis wisdom's use 
Still to delay what we dare not refuse : 
Ere granting the boon he comes hither to ask, 
Shape for the giant gigantic task ; 
Let us see how a step so sounding can 

tread 
In paths of darkness, danger, and dread ; 
He may not, he will not, impugn our 

decree. 
That calls but for proof of his chivalry ; 
And were Guy to return, or Sir Bevis the 

Strong, 
Our wilds have adventure might cumber 

them long — 
The Castle of Seven Shields " " Kind 

Anselm, no more ! 
The step of the Pagan approaches the 

door." 
The churchmen were hush'd. In his mantle 

of skin. 
With his mace on his shoulder. Count 

Harold strode in. 
There was foam on his lips, there was fire 

in his eye. 
For, chafed by attendance, his fury was nigh, 
" Ho ! Bishop," he said, " dost thou grant 

me my claim ? 
Or must I assert it by falchion and 

flame ? " — 



^ 





HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 



327 



" On thy suit, gallant Harold," the Bishop 

replied, 
In accents which trembled, " we may no'. 

decide, 
Until proof of your strength and your 

valor we saw — 
'Tis not that we doubt them, but such is 

the law." — 
" And would you. Sir Prelate, have Harold 

make sport 
For the cowls and the shavelings that 

herd in thy court ? 
Say what sliall he do ? — From the shrine 

shall he tear 
The lead bier of thy patron, and heave it 

in air, 
And through the long chancel make 

Cuthbert take wing. 
With the speed of a bullet dismiss'd from 

the sling ? " — [said, 

" Nay, spare such probation," the Cellarer 
" From the mouth of our minstrels thy 

task shall be read. 
While the wine sparkles high in the goblet 

of gold, [told ; 

And the revel is loudest, thy task shall be 
And thyself, gallant Harold, shall, hear- 
ing it, tell 
That the Bishop, his cowls, and his shave- 
lings, meant well." 

XIII. 

Loud revell'd the guests, and the goblets 

loud rang, 
But louder the minstrel, Hugh Meneville, 

sang; 
And Harold, the hurry and pride of 

whose soul, 
E'en when verging to fury, own'd music's 

control. 
Still bent on the harper his broad sable eye. 
And often untasted the goblet pass'd by ; 
Than wine, or than wassail, to him was 

more dear 
The minstrel's high tale of enchantment to 

hear ; 
And the Bishop that day might of Vinsauf 

complain 
That his art had but wasted his wine-casks 

in vain. 

XIV. 
THE CASTLE OF THE SEVEN SHIELDS. 

A Ballad. 
The Druid Urien had daughters seven, 
Their skill could call the moon from 
heaven ; 



So fair their forms and so high their 

fame. 
That seven proud kings for their suitors 

came. 
King Mador and Rhys came from Powis 

and Wales, 
Unshorn was their hair, and unpruned 

was their nails -, 
From Strath-Clwyie was Ewain, and 

Ewain was lame, 
And tlie red-bearded Donald from Gal- 
loway came. 
Lot, King of Lodon, was hunchback'd 

from youth ; 
Dunmail of Cumbria had never a tooth ; 
But .\dolf of Bambrough, Northumber- 
land's heir. 
Was gay and was gallant, was young and 

was fair. 
There was strife 'mongst the sisters, for 

each one would have 
For husband King Adolf, the gallant and 

brave ; 
And envy bred hate, and hate urged them 

to blows. 
When the firm earth was cleft, and the 

Arch-fiend arose 1 

He swore to the maidens their wish to 

fulfil— 
They swore to the foe they would work by 

his will. 
A spindle and distaff to each hath he 

given, 
" Now hearken my spell," said the Outcast 

of heaven. 

" Ye shall ply these spindles at midnight 
hour. 

And for every spindle shall rise a tower, 

Where the right shall be feeble, the wrong 
shall have power, 

And there shall ye dwell with your para- 
mour.'' 

Beneath the pale moonlight they sate on 

the wold, 
And the rhymes Vifhich they chanted must 

never be told ; 
And as the black wool from the distaff 

they sped, 
With blood from their bosom they 

moisten'd the thread. 

As light danced the spindles beneath the 

cold gleam. 
The castle arose like the birth of a 

dream — 



328 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



The seven towers ascended like mist from 

the ground, 
Seven portals defend them, seven ditches 

surround. 

Within that dread castle seven monarchs 
were wed, 

But six of the seven ere the morning lay 
dead ; 

With their eyes all on fire, and their 
daggers all red, 

Seven damsels surround the Northum- 
brian's bed. 

'' Six kingly bridegrooms to death we have 

done, 
Six gallant kingdoms King Adolf hath 

won. 
Six lovely brides all his pleasures to do. 
Or the ijed of the seventh shall be hus- 

bandless too." 

Well chanced it that Adolf the night when 
he wed, 

Had confess'd and had sain'd him ere 
boune to his bed ; 

He sprung from the couch and the broad- 
sword he drew, 

And tliere the seven daughters of Urien he 
slew. 

The gate of the castle he bolted and seal'd. 
And hung o'er each arch-stone a crown 

and a shield; 
To the cells of Saint Dunstan then wended 

his way, 
And died in his cloister an anchorite gray. 

Seven monarchs' wealth in that castle lies 

stow'd, 
The foul fiends brood o'er them like raven 

and toad. 
Whoever shall guesten these chambers 

within, 
From curfew till matins, that treasure 

shall win. 

But manhood grows faint as the world 

waxes old! 
There lives not in Britain a champion so 

bold. 
So dauntless of heart, and so prudent of 

brain, 
As to dare the adventure that treasure to 

gain. 

The waste ridge of Cheviot shall wave with 
the rye. 

Before the rude Scots shall Northumber- 
land fly, 



CANTON FIFTH. 
I. 

Denmark's sage courtier to her princely 

youth, 
Granting his cloud an ouzel or a whale, 
Spoke, though unwittingly, a partial 

truth ; 
For Fantasy embroiders Nature's veil, 
The tints of ruddy eve, or dawning pale. 
Of the swart thunder-cloud, or silver 

haze. 
Are but the ground-work of the rich 

detail 
Which Fantasy with pencil wild por- 
trays, 
Blending what seems and is, in the rapt 
muser's gaze- 

Nor are the stubborn forms of earth and 

stone 
Less to the Sorceress's empire given ; 
For not with unsubstantial hues alone, 
Caught from the varying surge, or 

vacant heaven. 
From bursting sunbeam or from flash- 
ing levin. 
She limns her pictures ; on the earth, as 

air, 
Arise her castles, and her car is driven ; 
And never gazed the eye on scene so 

fair. 
But of its boasted charms gave Fancy half 

the share. 

II. 
Up a wild pass went Harold, bent to 

prove, 
Hugh Meneville, the adventurer of thy 

lay- 
Gunnar pursued his steps in faith and 

love. 
Ever companion of his master's way. 



And the flint diffs of Bambro' shall melt 

in the sun. 
Before that adventure be perill'd and won. 

XV. 1 

" And is this my probation ? " wild Harold 

he said, 
" Within a lone castle to press a lone 

bed ?— 
Good even, my Lord Bishop, — Saint 

Cuthbert to borrow, 
The Castle of Seven Shields receives me 

to-morrow." 




HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 



329 



Midward their path, a rock of cjranite ojray 

From the adjoining cliff nad made de- 
scent, — • 

A barren mass — yet witli her drooping 
spray 

Had a voung birch-tree crown'd its battle- 
ment, 
Twisting her fibrous roots through cranny, 
flaw, and rent. 

This rock and tree could Gunnar's thought 

engage 
Till Fancy brought the tear-drop to his 

eye. 
And at his master ask'd the timid Page, 
" What is the emblem that a bard should 

spy 
In that rude rock and its green canopy ? " 
And Harold said, " Like to the helmet 

brave 
Of warrior slain in fight it seems to lie. 
And these same drooping boughs do o'er it 

wave 
Not all unlike the plume his lady's favor 

gave." — 

" Ah, no ! " replied the Page ; " the ill- 
starr'd love 

Of some poor maid is in the emblem 
shown, 

Whose fates are with some hero's inter- 
wove. 

And rooted on a heart to love unknown : 

And as the gentle dews of heaven alone 

Nourish those drooping boughs, and as 
the scathe 

Of the red lightning rends both tree and 
stone, 

So fares it with her unrequited faith, — 
Her sole relief is tears — her only refuge 
death."— 

III. 
" Thou art a fond fantastic boy," 
Harold replied, " to females coy, 

Vet prating still of love ; 
Even so amid the clash of war 
I know thou lovest to keep afar, 
Though destined by thy evil star 

With one like me to rove, 
Whose business and whose joys are found 
Upon the bloody battle-ground. 
Yet, foolish trembler as thou art, 
Thou hast a nook of my rude heart, 
And thou and I will never part ; — ■ 
Harold would wrap the world in flame 
Ere injury on Gunnar came 1 " 



The grateful Page made no reply, 
But turn'd to Heaven his gentle eye. 
And clasp'd his hands, as one who said, 
" My toils — my wanderings are o'erpaid I " 
Then in a gayer, lighter strain, 
Compell'd himself to speech again ; 

And, as they flow'd along, 
His words took cadence soft and slow 
And liquid, like dissolving snow, 

They melted into song. 

V. 

" What though through fields of carnage 

wide 
I may not follow Harold's stride, 
Yet who with faithful Gunnar's pride 

Lord Harold's feats can see ? 
And dearer than the couch of pride 
He loves the bed of gray wolf's hide. 
When slumbering by Lord Harold's side 

In forest, field, or lea."— 



" Break off ! " said Harold, in a tone 
Where hurry and surprise were shown, 

With some slight touch of fear, — 
" Break off ! we are not here alone ; 
A Palmer form comes slowly on .' 
By cowl, and staff, and mantle known. 

My monitor is near. 
Now mark him, Gunnar, heedfully , 
He pauses by the blighted tree — 
Dost see him, youth 1 — Thou couldst not see 
When in the vale of Galilee 

I first beheld his form. 
Nor when we met that other while 
In Cephalonia's rocky isle, 

Before the fearful storm, — 
Dost see him now ? " — The Page, distraught 
With terror, answer'd, " 1 see nought. 

And there is nought to see. 
Save that the oak's scathed boughs fling 

down 
Upon the path a shadow brown, 
That, like a pilgrim's dusky gown, 

Waves with the waving tree." 



Count Harold gazed upon the oak 
Ki, if his eyestrings would have broke. 

And then resolvedly said,— 
" Be what it v/ill yon phantom gray— 
Nor heaven nor hell shall ever say 
That for their shadows from his way 

Count Harold turn'd dismay'd ; 








33° 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



I'll speak liini, though his accents fill 
My heart with that unwonted thrill 

Which vulgar minds call fear. 
I will subdue it 1 " — Forth he strode, 
Paused where the blighted oak-tree show'd 
Its sable shadow on the road, 
And, folding on his bosom broad 

His arms, said, " Speak — I hear." 

VIII. 

The Deep Voice said, " O wild of will, 
Furious thy purpose to fulfil^ 
Heart-sear'd and unrepentant still, 
How long, O Harold, shall thy tread 
Disturb the slumbers of the dead ? 
Each step in thy wild way thou makest, 
The ashes of the dead thou wakest ; 
And shout in triumph o'er thy path 
The fiends of bloodshed and of wrath. 
In this thine hour, yet turn and hear ! 
For life is brief and judgment near." 



Then ceased The Voice. — The Dane replied 
In tones where awe and inborn pride 
For mastery strove, — " In vain ye chide 
The wolf for ravaging the flock, 
Or with its hardness taunt the rock, — 
I am as they — my Danish strain 
Sends streams of fire through every vein. 
Amid thy realms of ghoul and ghost. 
Say, is the fame of Eric lost. 
Or Witikind's the Waster, known 
Where fame or spoil was to be won ; 
Whose galleys ne'er bore off a shore 

They left not black with flame ?— 
He was my sire, — and, sprung of him. 
That rover merciless and grim. 

Can I be soft and tame ? 
Part hence, and with my crimes no more 

upbraid me, 
I am that Waster's son, and am but what 

he made me." 



The Phantom groan'd ; — the mountain 

shook around, 
The fawn and wild doe started at the sound. 
The gorse and fern did wildly round them 

wave. 
As if some sudden storm the impulse gave. 
" All thou hast said is truth— Yet on the head 
Of that bad sire let not the charc;e be laid, 
That he, like thee, with unrelenting pace. 
From grave to cradle ran the evil raice : — 



Relentless in his avarice and ire, 
Churches and towns he gave to sword and 

fire ; 
Shed blood like water, wasted every land. 
Like the destroying angel's burning brand ; 
Fulfill'd whate'er of ill might be invented, 
Yes — all these things he did — he did, but he 

REPENTED ! 

Perchance it is part of his punishment still, 
That his offspring pursues his example of ill. 
But thou, when thy tempest of wrath shall 

next shake thee. 
Gird thy loins for resistance, my son, and 

awake thee ; 
If thou yield'st to thy fury, how tempted 

soever. 
The gate of repentance shall ope for thee 

NEVER 1 " 



" He is gone,'' said Lord Harold, and gazed 

as he spoke ; 
" There is nought on the path but the shade 

of the oak. 
He is gone, whose strange presence my 

feeling oppress'd. 
Like tlie night-hag that sits on the slum. 

berer's breast. 
My heart beats as thick as a fugitive's tread, 
And cold dews drop from my brow and my 

head. — 
Ho ! Gunnar, the flasket yon almoner gave ; 
He said that three drops would recall from 

the grave. 
For the first time Count Harold owns leech- 
craft has power. 
Or, his courage to aid, lacks the juice of a 

flower ! " 
The page gave the flasket, which Walwayn 

had fiil'd 
With the juice of wild roots that his art had 

distill'd — 
So baneful their influence on all that had 

breath, 
One drop had been frenzy, and two had been 

death. 
Harold took it, but drank not ; for jubilee 

shrill. 
And music and clamor were heard on the 

hill. 
And down the steep pathway, o'er stock and 

o'er stone. 
The train of a bridal came blithesomely on • 
There was song, there was pipe, there was 

timbrel, and still 
The burden was. " Joy to the fair Metelill !" 













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HAROLD THE 


DAUNTLESS. 331 




XII. 


These haunt each path, but chief they 




Harold might see from his high stance, 


Jay 




U Himself unseen, that train advance 


Their snares beside the primrose way. — J 






With mirth and melody \— 


Thus found that bridal band their path 






On horse and foot a mingled throng, 


Beset by Harold in his wrath. 






Measuring their steps to bridal song 


Trembling beneath hi3 maddening mood, 






And bridal minstrelsy ; 


High on a rock the giant stood ; 






And ever when the blithesome rout 


His shout was like the doom of death 






Lent to the song their ciioral shout. 


Spoke o'er their heads that pass"d beneath, 






Redoubling echoes roll'd about, 


His destined victims might not spy 






VVliile echoing cave and cliffs sent out 


The reddening terrors of his eye, — 






The answering symphony 


The frown of rage that writhed his face, — 






Of all those mimic notes which dwell 


The lip that foam'd like boar's in chase ; 






In hollow rock and sounding dell. 


But all could see — and, seeing, all 
Bore back to shun the threaten'd fall — 






Xlll. 


The fragment which their giant foe 
Rent from the cliff and heaved to throw. 






Joy shook his torch above the band. 






By many a various passion fann'd ; — 








As elemental sparks can feed 


XV. 






On essence pure and coarsest weed. 


Backward they bore ; — yet are there two 






Gentle, or stormy, or refined. 


For battle who prepare : 






Joy takes the colors of the mind. 


No pause of dread Lord William knew 






Lightsome and pure, but unrepress'd. 


Ere his good blade was bare ; 






He fired the bridegroom's gallant breast ; 


And Wulfstane bent his fatal yew. 






More feebly strove with maiden fear, 


But ere the silken cord he drew, 






Yet still joy glimmer'd through the tear 


As hurl'd from Hecla's thunder, flew 






On the bride's blushing cheek, that shows 


That ruin through the air ! 






Like dewdrop on the budding rose ; 


Full on the outlaw's front it came. 






While Wulfstane's gloomy smile declared 


And all that late had human name, 






The glee that selfish avarice shared, 


And human face, and human frame. 






And pleased revenge and malice high 


That lived, and moved, and had free will 






Joy's semblance took in Jutta's eye. 


To choose the path of good or ill. 






On dangerous adventure sped, 


Is to its reckoning gone ; 






The witch deem'd Harold with the dead, 


And naught of Wulfstane rests beliind, 






For thus that morn her Demon said : 


Save that beneath that stone. 






'^ If, ere the set of sun, be tied 


Half-buried in the dinted clay, 






The knot 'twixt bridegroom and his bride, 


A red and shapeless mass there lay 






The Dane shall have no power of ill 


Of mingled flesh and bone ! 






O'er William and o'er Metelill." 








And the pleased witch made answer. 


XVI. 






" Then 


As from the bosom of the sky 






Must Harold have pass'd from the paths of 


The eagle darts amain, 






men ! 


Three bounds from yonder summit high 






Evil repose may his spirit have, — 


Placed Harold on the plain. 






May hemlock and mandrake find root in 


As the scared wild-fowl scream and fly, 






his grave, — 


So fled the bridal train ; 






May his death-sleep be dogged by dreams 


As 'gainst the eagle's peerless might 






of dismay. 


The noble falcon dares the fight, 






And his waking be worse at the answering 


But dares the fight in vain, 






day." 


So fought the bridegroom ; from his hand 






XIV. 


The Dane's rude mace has struck his brand 






Such was their various mood of glee 


Its glittering fragments strew the sand. 






Blent in one shout of ecstacy. 


Its lord lies on the plain. « 


■> 




But still when Joy is brimming highest, 


Now, Heaven ! take noble William's part, 






Of Sorrow and Misfortune nighest. 


And melt that yet unmelted heart. 






Of Terror with her ague cheek. 


Or, ere his bridal hour depart, 






And lurking Danger, sages speak : — 


The hapless bridegroom's slain ) 




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332 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Count Harold's frenzied rage is high, 

There is a death-fire in his eye, 

Deep furrows on his brow are trench'd. 

His teeth are set, his hand is clench'd, 

The foam upon his lip is white, 

His deadly arm is up to smite ! 

But as the mace aloft he swung, 

To stop the blow young Gunnar sprung, 

Around his master's knees he clung, 

And cried, " In mercy spare ! 
0, think upon the words of fear 
Spoke by tliat visionary Seer, 
The crisis he foretold is here, — 

Grant mercy, — or despair! " 
This word suspended Harold's mood, 
Yet still with arm upraised he stood. 
And visage like the headsman's rude 

That pauses for the sign. 
" O mark thee with the blessed rood," 
The page implored ; " speak word of good, 
Resist the fiend, or be subdued ! " 

He sign'd the cross divine — 
Instant his eye hath human light. 
Less red, less keen, less fiercely bright ; 
His brow relax'd the obdurate frown, 
The fatal mace sinks gently down, 

He turns and strides away ; 
Yet oft, like revellers who leave 
Unfinish'd feast, looks back to grieve, 
As if repenting the reprieve 

He granted to his prey. 
Yet still of forbearance one sign hath he 

given, 
And fierce Witikind's son made one step 
towards heaven. 



But though his dreaded footsteps part. 
Death is behind and shakes his dart ; 
Lord William on the plain is lying. 
Beside him Metelill seems dying !- 
Bring odors — essences in haste — 
And lo ! a flasket richly chased, — 
But Jutta the elixir proves 
Ere pouring it for those she loves. — 
Then Walwayn's potion was not wasted, 
For when three drops the hag had tasted. 

So dismal was her yell. 
Each bn-d of evil omen woke, 
The raven gave his fatal croak. 
And shriek'd the night-crow from the oak. 
The screech-owl from the thicket broke, 

And flutter'd down the dell ! 
So fearful was the sound and stern, 
The slumbers ot the full-srorged erne 



Were startled, and from turze and fern 

Of forest and of fell. 
The fox and famish'd wolf replied, 
(For wolves then prowl'd the Cheviot side. 
From mountain head to mountain head 
The unhallow'd sounds around were sped; 
But when their latest echo fled, 
The sorceress on the ground lay dead. 



Such was the scene of blood and woes, 
With which the bridal morn arose 

Of William and of Metelill ; 
But oft, when dawning 'gins to spread, 
The summer morn peeps dim and red 

.\bove the eastern hill, 
Ere, bright and fair, upon his road 
The King of Splendor walks abroad ; 
So when this cloud had pass'd away. 
Bright was the noontide of their day, 
And all serene its setting ray. 



CANTO SIXTH. 



I. 



Well do I hope that this my minstrel 

tale 
Will tempt no traveller from southern 

fields, 
Whether in tilbury, barouche, or mail, 
To view the Castle of these Seven Proud 

Shields. 
Small confirmation its condition yields 
To Meneville's high lay, — No towers 

are seen 
On the wild heath, but those that Fancy 

builds. 
And, save a fosse that tracks the moor 

with green, 
Is naught remains to tell of what may 

there have been. 

And yet grave authors, with the no 

small waste 
Of their grave time, have dignified the 

spot 
By theories, to prove the fortress placed 
By Roman bands, to curb the invading 

Scot. 
Hutchinson, Horsley, Camden, I might 

quote. 
But rather choose the theory less civil 
Of boors, who, origin of things forgot. 
Refer still to the origin of evil, 
And for their master-mason choose that 

master-fiend the Devil. 







HAROLD THE DA UNTLESS. 



333 



Therefore, I say, it was on fiend-built 

towers 
That stout Count Harold bent his won- 
dering gaze. 
When evening dew was on the heather 

flowers, 
And the last sunbeams made the moun 

tain blaze, 
And tinged the battlements of other days 
With the bright level light ere sinking 

down. — 
Illumined thus, the Dauntless Dane 

surveys 
The Seven Proud Shields that o'er the 

portal frown 
And on their blazons traced high marks of 

old renown. 

A wolf North Wales had on his armor- 
coat, 

And Rhys of Powis-land a couchant stag ; 

Strath-Clwyde's strange emblem was a 
stranded boat, 

Donald of Galloway's a trotting nag ; 

A corn-sheaf gilt was fertile Lodon's brag ; 

A dudgeon-dagger was by Dunmail worn ; 

Northumbrian Adolf gave a sea-beat crag 

Surmounted by a cross — such signs were 
borne 
Upon these antique shields, all wasted now 
and worn. 



These scann'd. Count Harold sought the 

castle door. 
Whose ponderous bolts were rusted to 

decay ; 
Yet till that hour adventurous knight 

forbore 
The unobstructed passage to essay. 
More strong than armed warders in array, 
And obstacle more sure than bolt or bar, 
State in the portal Terror and Dismay, 
While Superstition, who forbade to war 
With foes of other mould than mortal clay, 
Cast spells across the gate, and barr'd the 

onward way. 

Vain now these spells ; for soon with 

heavy clank 
The feebly-fasten d gate was inward 

push'd, 



And, as it oped, through that emfalazon'd 

rank 
Of antique shields, the wind of evenmg 

rush'd 
With sound most like a groan, and then 

was hush'd. 
Is none who on such spot such sounds 

could hear n 

But to his heart the blood had faster ;| 

rush'd ; '■} 

Yet to bold Harold's breast that throb 

was dear — 
It spoke of danger nigh, but had no touch of 

fear. 

IV 

Yet Harold and his Page no signs have 

traced 
Within the castle, that of danger show'd , 
For stil! the halls and courts were wild 

and waste. 
As through their precincts the adventurers 

trode. 
The seven huge towers rose stately, tall, 

and broad. 
Each tower presenting to their scrutiny 
A hall in which a king might make abode, 
And fast beside, garnish'd both proud 

and high. 
Was placed a bower for rest in which a king 

might lie 

As if a bridal there of late had been, 
Deck'd stood the table in each gorgeous 

hall; 
And yet it was two hundred years, I ween, 
Since date of that unhallow'd festival. 
.Flagons, and ewers, and standing cups: 

were all 
Of tarnish'd gold, or silver nothing clear, 
With throne begilt, and canopy of pall. 
And tapestry clothed the walls with frag- 
ments sear — 
Frail as the spider's mesh did that rich 
woof appear. 

V. 
In every bower, as round a hearse, was 

hung 
A dusky crimson curtain o'er the bed, 
And on each couch in ghastly wise were 

flung 
The wasted relics of a monarch dead ; 
Barbaric ornaments around were spread. 
Vests twined with gold, and chains of 

precious stone, 
And golden circlets, meet for monarch's 

head ; 



^ 





334 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



While grinn'd, as if in scorn amongst 
them thrown, 
The wearer's fleshless skull, alike with dust 
bestrewn. 

For these were they who, drunken with 
delight. 

On pleasure's opiate pillow laid their head. 

For whom the bride's shy footsteps, slow 
and light. 

Was changed ere morning to the mur- 
derer's tread. 

For human bliss and woe in the frail 
thread 

Of human life are all so closely twined, 

That till the shears of Fate the texture 
shred. 

The close succession cannot be disjoin'd. 
Nor dare we, from one hour, judge that 
which comes behind. 



But where the work of vengeance had 

been done. 
In that seventh chamber, was a sterner 

sight ; 
There of the witch-brides lay each skeleton, 
Still in the posture as to death when dight, 
For thi? lay prone, by one blow slain 

outright ; 
And that, as one who struggled long in 

dying ; 
One bony hand held krife, as if to smite ; 
One bent on fleshless knees, as mercy 

crying ; 
One lay across the door, as kill'd in act of 

flying. 

The stern Dane smiled this charnel-house 

to see, — 
For his chafed thought retum'd to 

Metelill ;— 
And " Well," he said, " hath woman's 

perfidy. 
Empty as air, as water volatile, 
Been here avenged. — The origin of ill 
Through woman rose, the Christian doc- 
trine saith ; 
Nor deem I, Gunnar, that thy minstrel 

skill 
Can show example where a woman's 

breath 
Hath made a true-love vow, and, tempted, 

kept her faith." 



The minstrel-boy half smiled, half sigh'd, 
And his half-filling eyes he dried, 
And said, " The theme I should but wrong, 
Unless it were my dying song, 
(Our Scalds have said, in dying hour 
The northern harp has treble power,) 
Else could I tell of woman's faith, 
Defying danger, scorn, and death. 
Firm was that faith, — as diamond stone 
Pure and unflaw'd, — her love unknown^ 
And unrequited ; — firm and pure, 
Her stainless faith could all endure ; 
From clime to clime, — from place to place 
Through want, and danger, and disgrace, 
A wanderer's wayward steps could trace. — 
All this she did, and guerdon none 
Required, save that her burial-stone 
Should make at length the secret known, 
' Thus hath a faithful woman done.' — 
Not in each breast such truth is laid, 
But Eivir was a Danish maid." — 



" Thou art a wild enthusiast," said 
Count Harold, " for thy Danish maid ; 
And yet, young Gunnar, I will own 
Hers were a faith to rest upon. 
But Eivir sleeps beneath her stone, 
And all resembling her are gone 
What maid e'er show'd such constancy 
In plighted faith, like thine to me ? 
But couch thee, boy ; the darksome shade 
Falls thickly round, nor be dismay'd 

Because the dead are by. 
They were as we ; our little day 
O'erspent, and we shall be as they. 
Yet near me, Gunnar, be thou laid, 
Thy couch upon my mantle made, 
That thou mayst think, should fear invade 

Thy master slumbers nigh." 
Thus couch'd tliey in that dread abode, 
Until the beams of dawning glow'd. 



An alter'd man Lord Harold rose. 
When he beheld that dawn unclose — 

There's trouble in his eyes, 
And traces on his brow and cheek 
Of mingled awe and wonder speak : 

" My page," he said, " arise ; — 
Leave we this place, my page." — No more 
He utter'd till the castle door 
They cross'd — but there he paused and said, 
" My wildness hath awaked the dead — 

Disturb' d the sacred tomb ! 






HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 



335 



Methought this night I stood on high, 
Where Hecla roars in middle sky, 
And in lier cavern'd gulfs could spy 

The central place of doom ; 
And there before my mortal eye 
Soids of the dead came flitting by, 
Whom fiends, with many a fiendish cry, 

Bore to that evil den ! 
My eyes grew dizzy, and my brain 
Was wilder'd, as the elvish train, 
With shriek and howl, dragg'd on amain 

Those who had late been men. 

X. 

" With haggard eyes and streaming hair, 

Jutta the Sorceress was there, 

And there pass'd Wulfstane, lately slain, 

All crusli'dand foul with bloody stain. — 

IMore Iiad I seen, but that uprose 

A wliirlwind wild, and swept the snow? , 

And with such sound as when at need 

A champion spurs his horse to speed, 

Three armed knights rush on, who lead 

Caparison'd a sable steed. 

Sable their harness, and there came 

Through their closed visors sparks of 

flame. 
The first proclaimed, in sounds of fear, 
* Harold the Dauntless, welcome here ! ' 
The next cried, ' Jubilee 1 we've won 
Count Witikind the Waster's son ! ' 
And the third rider sternly spoke, 
' Mount, in the name of Zernebock! — 
From us, O Harold, were thy powers, — 
Thy strength, thy dauntlessness, are ours ; 

Nor think, a vassal thou of hell, 
With hell can strive.' The fiend spoke 

true ! 
My inmost soul the summons knew, 

As captives know the knell 
That says the headsman's sword is bare, 
And, with an accent of despair. 

Commands them quit their cell. 
I felt resistance was in vain. 
My foot had that fell stirrup ta'en. 
My hand was on the fatal mane. 

When to my rescue sped 
That Palmer's visionary form, 
And — like the passing of a storm — 

The demons yell'd and fled 1 

XI. 

" His sable cowl flung back, reveal'd 
The features it before conceal'd ; 

And, Gunnar, I could find 
In him whose counsels strove to stay 
So oft my course on wilful way. 

My father Witikind I 



Doom'd for his sins, and doom'cl for mine, 

A wanderer upon earth to pine 

Until his son shall turn to grace, 

And smooth for him a resting-place. — 

Gunnar, he must not haunt in vain 

This world of wretchedness and pain : 

I'll tame my wilful heart to live 

In peace — to pity and forgive — 

And thou, for so the Vision said, 

Must in thy Lord's repentance aid. 

Thy mother was a prophetess, 

He said, who by her skill could guess 

How close the fatal textures join 

Which knit thy tliread of life with miiie ; 

Then, dark, he hinted of disguise 

-She framed to cheat too curious eyes, 

That not a moment might divide 

Thy fated footsteps from my side. 

Methought while thus my sire did teach, 

I caught the meaning of his speech, 

Yet seems its purport doubtful now.'" 

His hand then sought his thoughtful 

brow. 
Then first he rnark'd that in the tower 
His glove was left at waking hour. 



Trembling at first, and deadly pale, 
Had Gunnar heard the vision'd tale; 
But when he learn'd the dubious close, 
He blush'd like any opening rose. 
And, glad to hide his tell-tale cheek, 
Hied back that glove of mail to seek; 
When soon a shriek of deadly dread 
Summon'd his master to his aid. 



What sees Count Harold in that bower> 

So late his resting-place ? — 
The semblance of the Evil Power, 

Adored by all his race ? 
Odin in living form stood there, 
His cloak the spoils of Polar bear ; 
For plumy crest a meteor shed 
Its gloomy radiance o'er his head. 
Yet veil'd its haggard majesty 
To the wild lightnings of his eye. 
Such height was his, as when in stone 
O'er Upsal's giant altar shown: 

So flow'd his hoary beard ; 
Such was his lance of mountain-pine, 
So did his sevenfold buckler shine ; — 

But when his voice he rear'd, 
Deep, without liarshness, slow and strong 
The powerful accents roll'd along. 
And, while he spoke, his hand was laid 
On Captive Gunnar's shrinking head. 





« 




i3(> 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



"* Harold," he said, " what rage is thine, 
To quit the worship of tliy line, 

To leave thy Warrior-God ? — 
With me is glory or disgrace, 
Mine is the onset and the chaoC, 
Embattled hosts before my face 

Are witlier'd by a nod. 
Wilt thou then forfeit that high seat 
Deserved by many a dauntless feat, 
Among the heroes of thy line, 
Eric and fiery Thorarine ? — 
Thou wilt not. Only I can give 
The jovs for which the valiant live, 
Victory and vengeance — only 1 
Can give the joys for which they die, 
The immortal tilt — the banquet full. 
The brimming draught from foeman's 

skull. 
Mine art thou, witness this thy glove. 
The faithful pledge of vassal's love." 

XV. 

" Tempter," said Harold, firm of heart, 
" I charge thee, hence ! whate'er thou art, 
I do defy thee — and resist 
The kindling frenzy of my breast, 
^^'aked by thy words ; and of my mail, 
Nor glove, nor buckler, splent, nor nail, 
Shall rest with thee — that youth release, 
And God, or Demon, part in peace." — • 
" Eivir," the Shape replied, " is mine. 
Maik'd in the birth-hour with my sign. 
Think'st thou that priest with drops of 

spray 
Could wash that blood-red mark away ? 
Or that a borrow'd sex and name 
Can abrogate a Godhead's claim ? " 
Thrill' d this strange speech through 

Harold's brain. 
He clenched his teeth in high disdain, 
For not his new-born faith subdued 
Some tokens of his ancient mood. — 
" Now, by the hope so lately given 
Of better trust and purer heaven, 
I will assail thee, fiend ! " — Then rose 
. His mace, and with a storm of blows 
The mortal and the Demon close. 

XVI. 

Smoke roll'd above, fire flash'd around, 
Darken'd the sky and shook the ground 

But not the artillery of hell, 
The bickering lightning, nor the rock 
• Of tiuTct-^ to the earthquake's shock. 
Could Harold's courage quell. 
Sternly the Dane his purpose kept 
And blows on blows resistless heap'd. 



Till quail'd that Demon Form, 
And — for his power to hurt or kill 
Was bounded by a higher will — 

Evanish'd in the storm. 
Nor paused the Champion of the Nortli, 
But raised and bore his Eivir forth, 
From that wild scene of fiendish strife, 
To light, to liberty, and life 1 

XVII. 

He placed her on a bank of moss, 

A silver runnel bubbled by, 
And new-born thoughts his soul engross, 
And tremors yet unknown across 

His stubborn sinews fly, 
The while with timid hand the dew 
Upon her brow and neck he threw, 
And mark'd how life with rosy hue 
On her pale cheek revived anew, 

And glimmer'd in her eye. 
Inly he said, " That silken tress, — 
What blindness mine that could not guess ! 
Or Iiovv could page's rugged dress 

That bosom's pride belie ? 
O, dull of heart, through wild and wave 
In search of blood and death to rave, 

With such a partner nigh!" 

XVIII. 

Then in a mirror' d pool he peer'd, 
Blamed his rough locks and shaggy beard, 
The stains of recent conflict clear'd, — 

.\nd thus the Champion proved. 
That he fears now who never fear'd, 

And loves who never loved. 
And Eivir — life is on her cheek. 
And yet she will not move or speak, 

Nor will her eyelid fully ope ; 
Perchance it loves, that half-shut eye. 
Through its long fringe, reserved and shy, 
Affection's opening dawn to spy ; 
And the deep blush, which bids its dye 
O'er cheek, and brow, and bosom fly. 

Speaks shame-facedness and hope. 

XIX. 

But vainly seems the Dane to seek 
For terms his new^-born love to speak, — 
For words, save those of wrath and wrong, 
Till now were strangers to his tongue ; 
So, when he raised the blushing maid, 
In blunt and honest terms he said, 
{'Twere well that maids, when lovers woo, 
Heard none more soft, were all as true,) 
" Eivir ! since thou for many a day 
Hast follow'd Harold's wayward way, 
It is but meet that in the Ime 
Of after-life I follow thine. 






HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 



337 



To-morrow is Saint Cuthbert's tide, 
And we will grace liis altar's side, 
A Christian knight and Christian bride; 
And of Witikind's son shall the marvel be 

said, 
That on the same morn he was christen'd 

and wed." 

CONCLUSION. 

And now, Ennui, what ails thee, weary 

maid ? 
And why these listless looks of yawning 

sorrow ? 



No need to turn the page, as if 'twere 
lead. 

Or fiing aside the volume till to-mor- 
row. — 

Be cheer'd — 'tis ended — and I will not 
borrow, 

To try thy patience more, one anecdote 

From Bartholine, or Perinskiold, or Snorro. 

Then pardon thou thy minstrel, who hath 
wrote 

A Tale six cantos long, yet scorn'd to add 
a note. 



CONTRIBUTIONS TO MINSTRELSY 
OF THE SCOTTISH BORDER. 



ImHaliciTS of i\t %xitxt\\i §allair. 



THOMAS THE RHYMER. 

IN THREE PARTS. 

FIRST PART.— ANCIENT. 

Fbw personages are so renowned in tradition as Thomas oi Ercildoune, known by the appel- 
lation of The Rhymer. Uniting, or supposing to unite, in his person the powers of poetical 
composition and of vaticination, his memory, even after the lapse of five hundred years, is re- 
garded vnth veneration by his countrymen. To give anything like a certain history of this re- 
markabie man would be indeed difficult ; but the curious may derive some satisfaction from the 
particulars here brought together. 

It is agreed on all hands, that the residence, and probably the birthplace, of this ancient bard 
was Ercildoune, a village situated upon the Leader, two miles above its junction with the Tweed. 
The ruins of an ancient tower are still pointed out as the Rhymer's castle. The uniform tradition 
bears, that his surname was Lermont, or Learmont ; and that the appellation of The Rhy7ner 
wrs conferred on him in consequence of his poetical compositions. There remains, nevertheless, 
some doubt upon the subject. 

We are better able to ascertain the period at which Thomas ot Ercildoune lived, being the 
latter end of the thirteenth century. I am inclined to place his death a little farther back than 
Mr. Pinkerton, who supposes that he was alive in 1300. — -{List of Scottish Poets.) 

It cannot be doubted that Thomas of Ercildoune was a remarkable and important person in 
his own time, since, very shortly after his death, we find him celebrated as a prophet and as a 
pf)et. Whether lie Irmself made any pretensions to the first of these characters, or whether it 
was gratuitously conferred upon him by the credulity of posterity, it seems difficult to decide. 
If we may believe Mackenzie. Learmont only versified the prophecies delivered by Eliza, an in- 
spired nun of a convent at Haddington. But of this there seems not to be the most distant 
proof. On the contrary, all ancient authors, who quote the Rhymer's Drophecies, uniformly 
suppose them to have been emitted by himself. 







338 



SCOTT'S POETICAL IVORA'S. 



The popular tale bears, that Thomas was carried off, at an early age, to the Fairy Land 
where he acquired all the knowledge which made him afterwards so famous. After seven years, 
residence, he was permitted to return to the earth, to enhghten and astonish his countrymen by 
his prophetic powers ; still, however, remaining bound to return to his royal mistress, when slie 
should intimate her pleasure. Accordingly, while Thomas was making merry with his friends 
in the Tower of Ercildoune, a person came running in, and told, with marks of fear and astonish- 
ment, that a hart and hind had left the neighboring forest, and were, composedly and slowly, 
parading the street of the village . The prophet instantly arose, left his habitation, and followed 
the wonderful animals to the forest, whence he was never seen to return. According to the 
popular belief, he still "drees his weird" in Fairy Land, and is one day expected to revisit earth. 
In the mean while, his memory is held in the most profound respect. The Elden Tree, from 
beneath the shade of which he delivered his prophecies, now no longer exists ; but the spot is 
marked by a large stone, called Eildon Tree Stone. A neighboring rivulet takes the name of 
the Bogle Burn (Goblin Brook)from the Rhymer's supernatural visitants. 

It seemed to the Editor unpardonable to dismiss a person so important in Border traditions 
as the Rhymer, without some further notice than a simple commentary upon the following 
ballad. It is given from a copy, obtained from a lady residing not far from Ercildoune, cor- 
rected and enlarged by one in Mrs. Brown's MSS. The former copy, however, as might be 
expected, is far from minute as to local description To this old tale the Editor has ventured 
to add a Second Part, consisting of a kind of cento, from the printed prophecies vulgarly 
ascribed to the Rhymer ; and a Third Part, entirely modern, founded upon the tradition of his 
having returned with the hart and the hind to the Land of Faery To make his peace with the 
more severe antiquaries, the Editor has prefixed to the Second Part some remarks on Lear- 
mont's prophecies. 

True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank; * 

A ferlie t he spied vi'i' his ee ; 
And there he saw a ladye bright, 

Come riding down by the Eild Tree. 



Her shirt was o' the grass-green silk, 

Her mantle o' the velvet fyne; 
At ilka \ tett of her horse's mane, 

Hung fifty siller bells and nine. 

True Thomas he pull'd aff his cap, 
And louted § low down to his knee, 

" All hail, thou mighty Queen of Heaven ! 
For thy peer on earth 1 never did see."— 

" no, O no, Thomas," she said, 
" That name does not belong to me , 

I am but the Queen of fair Elfland, 
That am hither come to visit thee. 

" Harp and carp, Thomas," she said , 

" Harp and carp along wi' me ; 
And if ye dare to kiss my lips, 

Sure of your bodie I will be.'' — 

*' Betide me weal, betide me woe, 

That weird jj shall never daunton me."— 

Syne he has kiss'd her rosy lips, 
All underneath the Eildon Tree. 

^' Now, ye maun go wi' me," she said , 
" True Thomas, ye maun go wi' me ; 

And ye maun serve me seven years, I 

Thro' weal or woe as may chance to be." 

* A spot afterwards included in the domain 
of Abbotsford. T Wonder. % Each. • 

§ Bowed. 11 Destiny shall not alarm me. | 



She mounted on her milk-white steed 1 
She's ta'en true Thomas up behind *. 

And aye, whene'er her bridle rung, 
The steed flew swifter than the wind. 

O they rade on, and farther on ; 

The steed gaed swifter than the wind ; 
Until they reach'd a desert wide, 

And living land was left behind. 

" Light down, light down, now true 
Thomas, 

And lean your head upon my knee ; 
Abide and rest a little space, 

And I will shew you ferlies T[ three. 

" O see ye not yon narrow road, 

So thick beset with thorns and briers ? 

That is the path of righteousness, 
Though after it but few enquires. 

" And see ye not that braid braid road, 
That lies across that lily leven ? 

That is the path of wickedness, 

Though some call it the road to heaven. 

" And see not ye that bonny road, 
That winds about the fernie brae? 

That is the road to fair Elfland, 

Where thou and I this night maun gae. 

" But, Thomas, ye maun hold your tongue, 

Whatever ye may hear or see ; 
For, if ye speak word in Elflyn land, 

Ye'll ne'er get back to your ain countne." 

H Wonders. 




CONTRIBUTIONS TO MINSTRELSY. 



339 



O they rade on, and farther on, 

And they waded through rivers aboon 
the knee, 
And they saw neither sun nor moon, 

But they heard the roaring of the sea. 

It was mirk mirk night, and there was nae 
stern light- 
And they waded througli red blude to the 
knee. 
For a' the blude that's shed on earth 

Rins through the springs o' that countrie. 

Syne they came on to a garden green. 
And she pu'd an apple frae a tree * — 

" Take this for thy wages, true Thomas ; 
It will give thee the tongue that will never 
lie." — 



" My tongue is mine ain," true Thomas 
said ; 

" A gudely gift ye wad gie to me ! 
I neither dought to buy nor sell. 

At fair or tryst where I may be. 

" I dought neither speak to prince or 
peer, 

Nor ask of grace from fair ladye."— 
" Now hold thy peace ! " the lady said, 

" For as I say, so must it be." — 

He has gotten a coat of the even cloth, 
And a pair of shoes of velvet green ; 

And till seven years were gane and past, 
True Thomas on earth was never 




PART SECOND— ALTERED FROM ANCIENT PROPHECIES. 

The prophecies, ascribed to Thomas of Ercildour.e, have been the principal means of securing 
to him remembrance '' amongst the sons of his people." The author of Sir Tristrem 
would long ago have joined, m the vale of oblivion, " Clerk of Tranent, who wrote the adventure 
of Schirv Gawaiti" if, by good hap, the same current of ideas respecting antiquity, which causes 
Virgil to be regarded as a magician by the Lazaroni of Naples, had not exalted the bard of 
Ercildoune to the prophetic character. Perhaps, indeed, he himself affected it during his 
life. We know, at least, for certain, that a belief in his supernatural knowledge was current 
soon after his death. His prophecies are alluded to by Barbour, by Winton, and by Henry the 
Minstrel, or Blind Harry, as he is usually termed. None of these authors, however, give the 
words of any of the Rhymer's vaticinations, but merely narrate, historically, his having predicted 
the events of which they speak. The earliest of the prophecies ascribed to him, which is now 
extant, is quoted by Mr. Pinkerton from a MS. It is supposed to be a response from Thomas 
of Ercildoune to a question from the hcioic Countess of March, renowned for the defence of the 
Castle of Dunbar against the English, and termed, m the familiar dialect of her time Black 
Agnes of Dunbar This prophecy is remarkable, in so far as it bears very little resemblance to 
any verses published in the printed copy of the Rhymer's supposed prophecies. 

Corspatrick (Comes Patrick) Earl of March, but more commonly taking his title from his 
castle of Dunbar, acted a noted part during the wars of Edward I in Scotland As Thomas of 
Ercildoune is said to have delivered to him his famous prophecy of King Alexander's death, 
the Editor has chosen to introduce him into the following ballad. All the prophetic verses are 
selected from Hart's publication, t 



When seven years were came and gane, 
The sun blink'd fair on pool and stream ; 

And Thomas lay on Huntlie Bank, 
Like one awaken'd from a dream. 

He heard the trampling of a steed. 

He saw the flash of armor flee, 
And he beheld a gallant knight 

Come riding down by the Eildon- 
tree. 



He was a stalwart knight, and strong • 
Of giant make he 'pear'd to be ; 

He stirr'd his horse, as he were wode, 
Wi' gilded spurs, of faushion free. 

Says — " Well met, well met, true Thomas 1 

Some uncouth ferlies show to me." — 
Says — " Christ thee save, Corspatrick 

brave ! 
Thrice welcume, good Dunbar, to me ! 



* The traditional commentary upon this ballad informs us, that the apple was the produce o) 
the fatal Tree of Knowledge, and that the garden was the terrestrial paradise. The repugnance 
of Thomas to be debarred the use of falsehood, when he might find it convenient, has a comic 
effect. 

t Prophecies supposed to have been delivered by True Thorcas, Bede, Merlin. &c., published 
by Andro Hart, 1615. — [Edit.] 





34° 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



" Light down, light down, Corspatrick 
brave I 

And I will show thee curses three, 
Shall gar fair Scotland greet and grane. 

And change the green to the black li\ ery. 

" A storm shall roar this very hour, 
From Ross's hill to Solway sea," — 

" Ye lied, ye lied, ye warlock hoar, 

For the sun shines sweet on faukl and 
lee." — 

He put his hand on the Earlie's head ; 

He show'd him a rock beside the sea, 
Where a king lay stiff beneath his steed,* 

And steel-dight nobles wiped their ee. 

" The neist curse lights on Branxton hills ; 

By Flodden's high and heathery side, 
Shall wave a banner red as blude, 

And chieftains throng wi' meikle pride. 

" A Scottish King shall come full 

The ruddy lion beareth he ; 
A feather'd arrow sharp, I ween, 

.Shall make him wink and warre to see. 

" When he is bloody, and all to bledde. 
Thus to his men he still shall say — 

' For God's sake, turn ye back again, 
And give yon southern folk a fray ! 

Why should I lose, the right is mine I 
My doom is not to die this day,' t 

-' Yet turn ye to the eastern hand. 
And woe and wonder ye sail see ; 

How forty thousand spearmen stand, 
Where yon rank river meets the sea." 

" There shall the lion lose the gylte, 
And the libbards J bear it clean away ; 



At Pinkyn Cleuch there shall be split 
Much gentil bluid that day." 

'' Enough, enough, of curse and ban ; 

Some blessings show thou now to me, 
Or, by the faith o' my bodie," Corspatrick 
said, 

" Ye shall rue the day ye e'er saw me ! " — 

" The first of blessings I shall thee show, 
Is by a burn, that's call'd of bread ; § 

Where Saxon men shall tine the bow, 
And find their arrows lack the head. 

' Beside that brigg, out ower that burn. 

Where the water bickereth bright ana 
sheen. 
Shall many a fallen courser spurn. 

And knights shall die in battle keen. 
" Beside a headless cross of stone. 

The libbards there shall lose the gree : 
The raven shall come, the erne shall go, 

And drink the Saxon bluid sae free. 
The cross of stone they shall not know, 

So thick the corses there shall be." — 
" But tell me, now," said brave Dunbar, 

" True Thomas, tell now unto me, 
What man shall rule the isle Britain, 

Even from the north to the soutl'.ern 
sea t " — 
" A French Queen shall bear the son,|| 

Shall rule all Britain to the sea ; 
He of the Bruce's blood shall come, 

As near as in the ninth degree. 
" The waters worship shall his race ; 

Likewise the waves of the farthest sea ; 
For they shall ride over ocean wide. 

With hempen bridles, and horse of tree." 



PART THIRD.— MODERN. 

Thomas the Rhymer was renowned among his contemporaries, as the author of the celebrated 
roroance of Sir Tristrevi. Of this once-admired poem only one copy is now known to exist, which 
is in ilie Advocates' Library. The Editor, in 1804, published a small edition of this curious work ; 
which, i£ it does not revive the reputation of the bard of Ercildoune, is at least the earliest 
specimen of Scotlisli poetry hitherto published. Some account of this romance has already 
been given to the world in Mr. Ellis"s Speciiiietis of A ncient Poetry, vol. i. p. 165 ; lii. p. 410 ; 
a work to wliich our predecessors and our posterity are alike obliged ; the former, for the pre- 
servation of the best-selected examples of their poetical taste ; and the latter, for a history of 
the English language, which will only cease to be interesting with the existence of our mother- 
tongue, and all that genius and learning have recorded in it. It is sufficient here to mention, 
that so great was the reputation of the romance of Sir Tristrem, that few were thought capable 
of reciting it after the manner of the author. 



• King Alexander III., killed by a fall from 
his horse near Kinghorn. 

t The uncertainty which long prevailed in 
Scotland, concerning the fate of James IV., 's 
well known. 

% Leopards of Plantagenet. The Scottish 



I banner is a lion on a field gules: the English 
banner then was the three leopards. 
§ Ban7tock, or Breed Burn. 
II James VI., son of Mary Queen of France 
and Scotland. 




^^^ 




c-f- 



M 



CONTRIBUTIONS TO MINSTRELSY. 



34' 



The following attempt to commemorate the Rhymer's poetical iame, and the traditional 
account of his marvellous return to Fairy Land, being entirely modern, woald hav6 been placed 
with greater propriety among the class of Modern Ballads, had it not been for its immediate 
connection with the first and second parts of the same story. 
When seven years more were come and ; But chief, m gentle Tristram's praise^ 



Was war through Scotland spread, 
And Ruberslaw show'd high Dunyon * 
His beacon blazing red. 

' Then all by bonny Coldingknow t 

Pitch'd palliouns \ took their room, 

And crested helms, and spears a-rowe, 

Glanced gayly through the broom. 

The Leader, rolling to the Tweed, 

Resounds the ensenzie ; § 
They roused the deer from Caddenhead, 

To distant Torwoodlee, 

The feast was spread in Ercildoune, 
In Learmont's high and ancient hall : 

And there were knights of great renown, 
And ladies, laced in pali. 

Nor lack'd they, while they sat at dine, 

The music nor the tale, 
Nor goblets of the blood-red wine, 

Nor mantling quaighs \\ of ale. 

True Thomas rose, with harp in hand, 

When as the feast was done : 
(In minstrel strife, in Fairy Land, 

The elfin harp he won ) 

Hush'd were the throng, both limb and 
tongue, 

And harpers for envy pale , 
And armed lords lean'd on their swords, 

And hearken'd to the tale 

In numbers liigh, the witching tale 

The prophet pour'd along ; 
No after bard might e'er avail 

Those numbers to prolong. 

Yet fragments of the lofty strain 

Float down the tide of years. 
As, buoyant on the stormy main, 

A parted wreck appears. 

He sung King Arthur's Table Round : 

The Warrior of the Lake ; 
How courteous Gawaine met the wound. 

And bled for ladies' sake. 

* Hills near Jedburgh, 
t A tower near Ercildoune. 
4 Tents. 

§ Ensenzie — War-cry, or gathering word. 
II Quaighs — Wooden cups, composed of 
staves hooped together. 



Tlte notes melodious swell ; 
Was none excell'd in Arthur's days. 
The knight of Lionelle. 

For Marke, his cowardly uncle's right, 

A venom'd wound he bore ; 
When fierce Morholde ne slew in fight. 

Upon the Irish shore. 

No art the poison might withstand ; 

No medicine could be found. 
Till lovely Isolde's lily hand 

Had probed the r<>nkling wound. 

With gentle hand and soothing tongue 

She bore the leech's part ; 
Xnd, while she o'er his sick-bed hung. 

He paid her with his heart. 

O fatal was the gift, I ween I 

For, doom'd in evil tide. 
The maid must be rude Cornwall's queen, 

His cow^ardly uncle's bride. 

Their loves, their woes, the gifted bard. 

In fairy tissue wove ; 
Where lords, and knights, and ladies 
bright. 

In gay confusion strove. 

The Garde Joyeuse, amid the tale, 
High rear'd its glittering head ; 

And Avalon's enchanted vale 
In all its wonders spread. 

Brangwain was there, and Segramore, 
And fiend-born Merlin's gramarye ; 

Of that famed wizard's mighty lore, 
O who could sing but he .' 

Through many a maze the winning song 

In changeful passion led, 
Till bent at length the listening throng 

O'er Tristrem's dying bed. 

His ancient wounds their scars expand, 
With agony his heart is wrung ■ 

where is Isolde's lilye hand. 
And where her soothing tongue ? 

She comes ! she comes ! — like flash of flame 

Can lovers' footsteps fly : 
She comes ! she comes ! — she only came 

To see her Tristram die. 

She saw him die ; her latest sigh 
Jom'd in a kiss his parting breath, 








342 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The gentlest pair that Cntain bare, 
United are in death. 

There par.sed the harp ; its Hngering sound 

Died slowly on tlie ear ; 
The silent guests still bent around, 

For still they seem'd to hear. 

Then woe broke forth in murmurs weak : 
Nor ladies heaved alone the sigh ; 

But half ashamed, the rugged cheek 
Did many a gauntlet dry. 

I m Leader's stream and Learmont's tower. 

The mists of evening close ; 
In camp, in castle, or in bower. 

Each warrior sought repose. 

Lord Douglas, m his lofty tent, 

Dream'd o'er the woeful tale ; 
When footsteps light, across the bent, 

The warrior's ear.s assail. 



He 



What, Richard, 



starts, he wakes ; ■ 
ho! 
Arise, my page, arise ! 
What venturous wight, at dead of night, 
Dare step where Douglas lies ? " — 

Then forth they rush'd : by Leader's tide, 
A selcouth * sight they see — 

A hart and hind pace side by side, 
As white as snow on Fairnalie. 

Beneath the moon, with gesture proud, 
They stately move and slow ; 

Nor scare they at the gathering crowd. 
Who marvel as they go. 

To Learmont's tower a message sped. 

As fast as page might run ; 
And Thomas started from his bed, 

And soon his clothes did on. 

First he woxe pale, and then woxe red ; 

Never a word he spake but three ; — 
•'My sand is run ; my thread is spun ; 

This siarn regardeth me." 



The elfin harp his neck around, 

In minstrel guise, he hung ; 
And on the wind, in doleful sound. 

Its dying accents rung. 

Then forth he went ; yet turn'd him oft 

To view his ancient hall : 
On the gray tower, in lustre soft, 

The autumn moonbeams fall. 

.\nd Leader's waves, like silver sheen, 
Danced shimmering in the ray ; 

In deepening mass, at distance seen, 
Broad Soltra's mountains lay. 

" Farewell, my fathers' ancient tower ! 

A long farewell," said he ; 
" The scene of pleasure, pomp, or power, 

Thou never more shalt be. 

" To Learmont's name no foot of earth 

Shall here again belong. 
And, on thy hospitable hearth. 

The hare shall leave her young. 

" Adieu 1 adieu ! " again he cried, 

All as he turn'd him roun' — 
" Farewell to Leader's silver tide ! 

Farewell to Ercildoune! " 

The hart and hind approach'd the place, 

.'\s lingering yet he stood; 
.A.nd there, before Lord Douglas' face. 

With them he cross'd the flood. 

Lord Douglas leap'd on his berry-brown 
steed, 

.\nd spurr'd him the Leader o'er ; 
But, though he rode with lightning speed, 

He never saw them more. 

Some said to hill, and some to glen, 
Their wondrous course had been ; 

But ne'er in haunts of living men 
Arain was Thomas seen. 



GLENFINLAS; OR, LORD RONALD'S CORONACH. f 

The simple tradition, upon which the following stanzas are founrlcd, runs thus: While two 
Highland hunters were passing the night in a solitary bothy (a luit, built for the puri^ose ol 
hunting), and making merry over their venison and whisky, one of tliem expressed a wish tliat 
they had pretty lasses to complete their party. The words were scarcely uttered, when two 
beautiful young women, habited in green, entered the hut, dancing and singing. One of the 
hunters was seduced, by the siren who attached herself particularly to him, to leave the hut : the 

* WondrouSt 

t Coronach — is the lamentation for a deceased warrior, sung by the aged of the clan. 






CONTRIBUTIONS TO MINSTRELSY. 



343 



other remained, and, suspicious of the fair seducers, continued to play upon a trump, or Jew s 
harp, some strain, consecrated to the Virgin Mary. Day at length came, and the temptress 
vanished. Searching in the forest, he found the bones of his unfortunate friend, who had been 
torn to pieces and devoured by tlie fiend into whose toils he had fallen. The place was from 
thence called the Glen of the Green Women. ,^. ,,,,„,, . r r 

Glenfiulas is a tract of forest-ground, lying m the Highlands of Perthshire, not far from 
Callenderin Menteith. It was formerly a roval forest, and now belongs to the Earl of Mor.ay. 
This country, as well as the adjacent district of Balquidder, was, in times of yore, chiefly in- 
habited by the Macgregors. To the west of the Forest of Glenfinlas hes Loch Katrine, and its 
romantic avenue, called the Trosachs. Benledi, Benmore, and Benvoirlich, are mountains in 
the same district, and at no sreat distance from Glenfinlas. The river Teith passes Callender 
and the Castle of Doune, and joins the Forth near Stirling. The Pass of Lenny is immediately 
above Callender, and is the principal access to the Highlands, from that town. Glenartney is a 
forest, near Benvoirlich. The whole forms a sublime tract of alpine scenery. 
This ballad first appeared in the Tales of Wojider, by Lewis. 

For them the viewless forms of air obey, 
Their bidding heed, and at their beck repair; 

They know what spirit brews the stormful day. 
And heartless oft, hke moody madness, stare. 

To see the phantom-traiu their secret work prepare. — Collins. 



" O HONE a rie' ! O hone a rie' 1 * 
The pride of Albin's line is o'er. 

And fall'n Glenartney's stateliest tree ; 
We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more ! " — 

O, sprung from great Macgillianore, 
The chief that never fear'd a foe, 

How matchless was thy broad claymore, 
How deadly thine unerring bow ! 

Well can the Saxon widows tell,t 

How, on the Teith's resounding shore, 

The boldest Lowland warriors fell, 
As down from Lenny's pass you bore. 

But o'er his hills, in festal day, 

How blazed Lord Ronald's beltane-tree,' 
While youths and maids the light strath- 
spey 

So nimbly danced with Highland glee ! 

Cheer'd by the strength of Ronald's shell, 

E'en age forgot his tresses hoar ; 
But now the loud lament we swell, 

O ne'er to see Lord Ronald more ! 
From distant isles a chieftain came. 

The joys of Ronald's halls to find. 
And chase with him the dark-brown game, 

That bounds o'er Albin's hills of wind. 
'Twas Moy ; whom in Cohimba's isle 

The Seer's prophetic spirit found,^ 
As, with a minstrel's fire the while, 

He waked his harp's harmonious sound. 
Full many a spell to him was known, 

Which wandering spirits shrink to hear; 

* O hone a rie' — " Alas for the chief! " 

t The term Sassenach, or Saxon, is applied 

by the Highlanders to their Low-Country 

neirJiDors. 



And many a lay of potent tone. 
Was never meant for mortal ear. 

For there, 'tis said, in mystic mood. 

High converse with the dead they hold, 

And oft espy the fated shroud. 

That shall the future corpse enfold. 

O so it fell, that on a day. 

To rouse the red deer from their den, 
The Chiefs have ta'en their distant way. 

And scour'd the deep Glenfinlas glen. 

No vassals wait their sports to aid, 

To watch their safety, deck their board ; 

Their simple dress, the Highland plaid, 
Their trusty guard, the Highland sword. 

Three summer days, thro' brake and dell, 
Their whistling shafts successful flew ; 

And still, when dewy evening fell. 
The quarry to their hut they drew. 

In gray Glenfinlas' deepest nook 

The solitary cabin stood, 
Fast by Moneira's sullen brook, 

Which murmurs through that lonely 
wood. 
Soft fell the night, the sky was calm. 

When three successive days had flown ; 
And summer mist in dewv balm 

Steep'd heathy bank and mossy stone. 
The moon, half-hid in silvery flake 

Afar her dubious radiance shed. 
Quivering on Katrine's distant lakes 
" And resting on Benledi's head. 
Now m their hut, in social guise, 

Their sylvan fare the Chiefs enjoy ; 
And pleasure laughs in Ronald's eyes, 

As many a plecige he quaffs to Moy. 






344 



SCO TT 'S POE TIC A L WORKS. 



" What lack we here to crown our Miss, 
While thus the pulse of joy beats high ? 

What, but fair woman's yielding kiss, 
Her panting breath and melting eye ? 

" To chase the deer of yonder shades. 
This morning left their father's pile 

The fairest of our mountain maids. 
The daughters of the proud Glengyle. 

" Long have I sought sweet Mary's heart, 
And dropp'd the tear, and heaved the 
sigh : 

But vain the lover's wily art. 
Beneath a sister's watchful eye 

" But thou mayst teach that guardian fair. 
While far with Mary 1 am flown. 

Of other hearts to cease her care. 
And find it hard to guard her own. 

" Touch but thy harp, thou soon shalt see 

The lovtly Flora of Glengyle, 
Unmindful of her charge and me. 

Hang on thy notes, 'twixt tear and smile. 

" Or, if she choose a melting tale, 
All underneath the greenwood bough. 

Will good St. Gran's rule prevail, ^ 

Stern huntsman of the rigid brow! " — 

" Since Enrick's fight, since Morna's death. 
No more on me shall rapture rise. 

Responsive to the panting breath, 
Or yielding kiss, or melting eyes. 

" E'en then, when o'er the heath of woe, 
Where sunk my hopes of love and fame, 

I bade my harp's wild wailings flow, 
On me the Seer's sad spirit came. 

"The last dread curse of angry heaven, 
With ghastly sights and sounds of woe, 

To dash each glimpse of joy was given — 
The gift, the future ill to know. 

"The bark thou saw'st, yon summer morn. 
So gayly part from Oban's bay, 

My eye beheld her dash'd and torn. 
Far on the rocky Colonsay. 

" Thy Fergus too — thy sister's son. 

Thou saw'st, with pride, the gallant's 
power. 

As marching 'gainst the Lord of Downe, 
He left the skirts of huge Benmore. 

" Thou only saw'st their tartans * wave, 
As down Benvoirlich's side they wound, 

* Tartans — the full Highland dress, made 
of the checkered stuff so terrtied. 



Heard'st but the pibroch,f answering brave 
To many a target clanking round. 

" I heard the groans, I mark'd the tears, 
I saw the wound his bosom bore. 

When on the serried Saxon speai s 
He pour'd his clan's resistless roar 

" And thou, who bidst me think of bliss, 
And bidst my heart awake to glee. 

And court, like thee, the wanton kiss — 
That heart, O Ronald, bleeds for thee ! 

" I see the death-damps chill thy brow ; 

1 hear thy Warning Spirit cry ; 
The corpse-lights dance — they're gone, and 
now. . . . 

No more is given to gifted eye !" — 

"^Alone enjoy thy dreary dreams, 

Sad prophet of the evil hour ! 
Say, should we scorn joy's transient beams. 

Because to-morrow's storm may lour ? 

'' Or false, or sooth, thy words of woe, 
Clangillian's Chieftain ne'er shall fear ; 

His blood shall bound at rapture's glow, 
Though doom'd to stain the SaxoD 
spear. 

" E'en now, to meet me in yon dell 
My Mary's buskins brush the dew.'' 

He spoke, nor bade the Chief farewell. 
But cali'd his dogs, and gay withdrew. 

Within an hour return'd each hound ; 

In rush'd the rousers of the deer ; 
They howl'd in melancholy sound. 

Then closely couch'd beside the Seer. 

No Ronald yet, though midnight came ; 

And sad were Moy's proph.etic dreams, 
As, bending o'er the dying flame, 

He fed the watch-fire's quivering gleams. 

Sudden the hounds erect their ears. 
And sudden cease their moaning howl ; 

Close press'd to Moy, they mark their fears 
By shivering limbs and stifled growl. 

Untouch'd, the harp began to ring, 
As softly, slowly, oped the door ; 

And shook responsive every string, 
As light a footstep press'd the floor. 

And by the watch-fire's glimmering light, 
Close by the minstrel's side was seen 

An huntress maid, in beauty bright. 
All dropping wet her robes of green. 



t Pibroch — a piece of martial music, adapted 

to the Highland bagpipe. 





CONTRIBUTIONS TO MINSTRELSY. 



34.S 



All dropping wet her garments seem ; 

Chill'd was her cheek, her bosom bare, 
As, bending o'er the dying gleam. 

She wrung the moisture from her hair. 

With maiden blush, she softly said, 
" O gentle huntsman, hast thou seen, 

In deep Glenfinlas' moonlight glade, 
A lovely maid in vest of green • 

" With her a Chief in Highland pride ; 

His shoulders bear the hunter's bow, 
The mountain dirk adorns his side, 

Far on the wind his tartans flow ? " — 

" And who art thou ? and who are they ? " 
All ghastly gazing, Moy repHed : 

" And why, beneath the moon's pale ray, 
Dare ye thus roam Glenfinlas' side? " — 

" Where wild Loch Katrine pours her tide, 
Blue, dark, and deep, round many an 
isle. 

Our father's towers o'erhang her side, 
The castle of the bold Glengyle. 

'' To chase the dun Glenfinlas deer. 

Our woodland course this morn we bore, 

And haply met, while wandering here. 
The son of great Macgillianore. 

•' O aid me, then, to seek the pair, 
Whom, loitering in the woods, 1 lost ; 

Alone, I dare not venture there. 

Where walks, they say, the shrieking 
ghost." — 

" Yes, many a shrieking ghost walks there ; 

Then, first, my own sad vow to keep. 
Here will I pour my midnight prayer, 

Which still must rise when mortals 
sleep." — 
" O first, for pity's gentle sake. 

Guide a lone wanderer on her way ! 
For I must cross the haunted brake. 

And reach my father's towers ere day." — 
" First, three times tell each Ave-bead, 

And thrice a Pater-noster say ; 
Then kiss with me the holy rede ; 

So shall we safely wend our way." — 
"'O shame to knighthood, strange and 
foul ! 

Go, doff the bonnet from thy brow. 
And shroud thee in the monkish cowl. 

Which best befits thy sullen vow. 
" Not so, by higli Dunlathmon's fire. 

Thy heart was froze to love and joy. 
When gayly rung thy raptured lyre 

To wanton Morna's melting eye." 



Wild stared the minstrel's eyes of flame, 

And liigh his sable locks arose. 
.-\nd quick his color went and Cauie, 

As fear and rage alternate rose. 
" And thou ! when by the blazing oak 

I lay, to her and love resign'd, 
Say, rode ye on the eddying smoke, 

Or sail'd ye on the midnight wind ? 

" Not thine a race of mortal blood. 
Nor old Glengyle's pretended line ; 

Thy dame, the Lady of the Flood — 
Thy sire, the Monarch of the Mine.'' 

He mutter'd thrice St. Oran's rhyme. 
And thrice St. Fillan's powerful prayer ; 

Then turn'd him to the eastern clime. 
And sternly shook his coal-black hair, 

.4nd, bending o'er the harp, he flung 
His wildest witch-notes on the wind : 

.^nd loud, and high, and strange, they rung 
As many a magic change they find. 

Tall wax'd the Spirit's altering form. 
Till to the roof her stature grew : 

'J'hen, mingling with the rising storm. 
With one wild yell away she flew. 

Rain beats, hail rattles, whirlwinds tear . 

The slender hut in fragments flew ; 
But not a lock of Moy's loose hair 

Was waved by wind, or wet by dew. 

Wild mingling with the howling gale, 
Loud bursts of ghastly laughter rise \ 

High o'er the minstrel's head they sail. 
And die amid the northern skies. 

The voice of thunder shook the wood. 
As ceased the more than mortal yell ; 

And, spattering foul, a shower of blood 
Upon the hissing firebrands fell. 

Next dropp'd from high a mangled arm ; 

The fingers strain'd a half-drawn blade: 
And last, the life-blood streaming warm, 

Torn from the trunk, a gasping head. 

Oft o'er that head, in battling field, 

Stream' d the proud crest of high Ben 
more ; 

That arm the broad claymore could wield. 
Which dyed the Teith with Saxon gore. 

Woe to Moneira's sullen rills ! 

Woe to Glenfinlas' dreary glen ! 
There never son of Albin's hills 

Shall draw the hunter's shaft agen. 
E'en the tired pilgrim's burning feet 

At noon shall shun that sheltering den. 








SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Lest, journeying in their rage, he meet 
The wayward Ladies of the Glen. 

And we — behind the Chieftain's shield, 
No more shall we in safety dwell ; 

None leads the people to the field — 
And we the loud lament must swell. 

hone a rie" ! hone a rie' ! 

The pride of Albin's line is o'er ! 
And fall'n Glenartney's stateliest tree ; 

We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more ! 



Lewis's collectior. produced also what 
Scott justly calls his ' first serious attempts in 
verse ; ' and of these the earliest appears to 
have been the Glenfinlas. Here the scene is 
laid m the most favorite district of his 
favorite Perthshire Highlands : and the 
Gaelic tradition on which it is founded was 
far more likely to draw out the secret strength 
<jf his genius, as well as to arrest the feelings 
of his countrymen, than any subject with 
which the stores of German diablerie could 
have supplied him. — Life of Scott, vol. ii 



THE EVE OK ST. JOHN. 



Smaylho'me, or Smallholm Tower, the scene of the following ballad, is situated on the northern 
boundary of Roxburghshire, among a cluster of wild rocks, called Sandiknow-Crags, the property 
of Hugh Scott, Esq.. of Harden [Lord Polwarth]. The tower is a high square building, sur- 
rounded by an outer wall, now ruinous. The circuit of the outer court, being defended on three 
sides by a precipice and morass, is accessible only from the west, by a steep and rocky path. 
The apartments, as is usual in a Border keep, or fortress, are placed one above another, and 
communicate by a narrow stair; on the roof are two bartizans, or platforms, for defence or 
pleasure. The inner door of tlie tower is wood, the outer an iron gate ; the distance between 
them being nine feet, the thickness, namely, of the wall. From the elevated situation of Smayl- 
ho'me Tower, it is seen many miles in every direction. Among the crags by which it is sur- 
rounded, one, more eminent, is called the Watch/old, and is said to have Ijeen the station of a 
beacon, in the times of war with England. Without the tower-court is a ruined chapel. Brother- 
stone is a heath, in the neighborhood of Smaylho'me Tower. 

This ballad was first printer) in Mr. Lewis's Tales of IVonder. It is here published with 
some additional illustrations, particularly an account of the battle of Ancram Moor ; which 
seemed proper in a work upon Border antiquities. The catastrophe of the tale is founded upon 
a well-known Irish tradition. The ancient fortress and its vicinity formed the scene of the 
Editor's infancy, and seemed to claim from him this attempt to celebrate them in a Border tale_ 



The Baron of Smaylho'me rose with day, 

He spiirr'd his courser on, 
Without stop or stay down the rocky way, 

That leads to Brotherstone. 

He went not with the bold Buccleuch, 

His banner broad to rear ; 
He went not 'gainst the English yew, 

To lift the Scottish spear. 

Vet his plate-jack * was braced, and his hel- 
met was laced, 
And his vaunt-brace of proof he wore : 
At his saddle-gerthe was a good steel 
sperthe. 
Full ten pound weight and more. 

The Baron return'd in three days' space, 
And his looks were sad and sour ; 

And weary was his courser's pace. 
As he reach'd his rocky tower. 



* The iilate-jack is coat-armor ; the vaunt- 
brace or wam-brace, armor for the body ; the 
sperthe, a battle-axe. 



He came not from where Ancram Moor ' 

Ran red with English blood ; 
Where the Douglas true, and the bold 
Buccleuch, 

'Gainst keen Lord Evers stood 

Yet was his helmet hack'd and hew'd, 

His acton pierced and tore, 
His axe and his dagger with blood im 
brued, — 

But it was not English gore. 

He lighted at the Chapeilage, 

He held him close and still ; 
And he whistled twice for his little foot, 
page, 

His name was English Will. 

" Come thou hither, my little foot-page. 

Come hither to my knee ; 
Though thou art young and tender of age, 

I think thou art true to me. 

" Come, tell me all that thou hast seen, 
And look thou tell me true ' 







CONTRIBUTIONS TO MINSTRELSY. 



347 



Since I from Smaylho'me tower have been, 
What did thy lady do ? "— 

" My lady, each night, sought the lonely 
light. 
That burns on the wild Watchfold ; 
For, from height to height, the beacons 
bright 
Of the English focmen told. 

' The bittern clamor'd from the moss. 

The wind blew loud and shrill ; 
Yet the craggy pathway she did cross 
To the eiry Beacon Hill. 

■' I watch'd her steps, and silent came 
Where she sat her on a stone ;— 

No watchman stood by the dreary flame, 
It burned all alone. 

" The second night I kept her in sight, 

Till to the fire she came, 
And, by Mary's might ! an Armed Knight, 

Stood by the lonely flame. 

" And many a word that warlike lord 

Did speak to my lady there ; 
But the rain fell fast, and loud blew the 
blast, 

And I heard not what they were. 

" The third night there the sky was fair, 
And the mountain-blast was still. 

As again 1 watch'd the secret pair, 
On the lonesome Beacon Hill. 

" And I heard her name the midnight houn 

And name this holy eve ; 
And say, ' Come this night to thy lady's 
bower, 

Ask no bold Baron's leave. 

" ' He lifts his spear with the bold Buc- 
cleuch ; 

His lady is all alone ; 
The door she'll undo, to her knight so true. 

On the eve of good St. John. — 

' ' I cannot come ; I must not come : 

I dare not come to thee ; 
On the eve of St. John I must wander alone : 

In thy bower I may not be.' — 

'' ' Now, out on thee, fainthearted knight ! 

Thou shouldst not say me nay ; 
For the eve is sweet, and when lovers meet, 

Is worth the whole summer's day. 

"'And I'll chain the blood-hound, and the 
warder shall not sound. 
And rushes shall be strew'd on the stair ; 



So, by the black-rood stone,* and by holy St 
John, 
I conjure thee, my love, to be there 1 " — ■ 

" ' Though the blood-hound be mute, and 
the rush beneath my foot, 
And the warder his bugle should not 
blow. 
Yet there sleepeth a priest in a chamber to 
the east, 
And my footstep he would know.' — 

" ' O fear not the priest, who sleepeth to the 
east ! 
For to Dryburgh t the way he has 
ta'en ; 
And there to say mass, till three days do 
pass. 
For the soul of a knight that is slayne.' — 

" He turn'd him around, and grimly he 
frown 'd ; 
Then he laugh'd right scornfully — 
' He who says the mass-rite for the soul of 
that knight. 
May as well say mass for me '■ 

'' * At the lone midnight hour, when bad 
spirits have power. 
In thy chamber will I be.' 
With that he was gone, and my lady left 
alone. 
And no more did I see." 

Then changed, I trow, was that bold Baron's 
brow, 
From the dark to the blood-red high ; 
" Now, tell me the mien of the knigb thou 
hast seen. 
For, by Mary, he shall die! " — 

" His arms shone full bright, in the beacon's 
red light : 
His plume it was scarlet and blue ; 
On his shield was a hound, in a silver leash 
bound. 
And his crest was a branch of the 
yew." — 

" Thou liest, thou liest, thou little foot- 
page, 
Loud dost thou lie to me ! 

* The black-rood of Melrose was a crucifix 
of black marble, and of superior sanctity. 

t Dryburgh Abbey stands on the banks of the 
Tweed. After its dissolution, it became the 
property of the Halliburtons of Newmains, 
and afterwards the seat of the Earls of Buchan 





348 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS 



For that knight is cold, and low laid in the 
mould, 
All under the Eildon-tree." * — 

" Yet hear but my word, my noble lord I 
For I heard her name his name; 

And that lady bright she called the knight 
Sir Richard of Coldinghame ! " 

The bold Baron's brow then changed, I 
trow, 
From high blood-red to pale — 
• The grave is deep and dark — and the corpse 
is stiff and stark — 
So I may not trust thy tale. 

" Where fair Tweed flows round holy Mel- 
rose, 

And Eildon slopes to the plain. 
Full three nights ago, by some secret foe, 

That gay gallant was slain. 

" The varying light deceived thy sight, 
And the wild winds drown'd the name ; 

For the Dryburgh bells ring, and the 
white monks do sing. 
For Sir Richard of Coldingluime ! " 

He pass'd the court-gate, and he oped the 

tower-gate. 
And he mounted the narrow stair. 
To the bartizan-seat, where, with maids that 

on her wait, 
He found his lady fair. 

That lady sat in mournful mood ; 

Look'd over hill and vale; 
Over Tweed's fair flood, and Mertoun's 
wood, 

And all down Teviotdale. 

" Now hail, now hail, thy lady bright ! "— 

" Now hail, thou Baron true ! 
What news, what news, from Ancram 
fight ? 

What news from the bold Buccleuch ? " — 

" The Ancram moor is red with gore, 

For many a Southron fell ; 
And Buccleuch has charged us, evermore, 

To watch our beacons well." — 

The lady blush'd red, but nothing she said : 
Nor added the Baron a word : 



* Eildon is a high hill, terminating in three 
conical summit":, immediately above the town 
of IMelrose, where are the admired ruins of a 
masnificeiit monastery. Eildon-tree is said to 
be the spot where Thomas the Rhymer uttered 
projihecies. 



Then she stepp'd down the stair to her 
chamber fair. 
And so did her moody lord. 

In sleep the lady mourn'd, and the Baron 
toss'd and turn'd. 
And oft to himself he said, — 
" The worms around him creep, and his 
bloody grave is deep. * * * 
It cannot give up the dead ! " — 

It was near the ringing of matin-bell, 

The night was well-nigh done. 
When a heavy sleep on that Baron fell. 

On the eve of good St. John. 

The lady look'd through the chamber 
fair. 

By the light of a dying flame ; 
And she was aware of a knight stood ther« — 

Sir Richard of Coldinghame 1 

" Alas ! away ! away ! " she cried, 
For the holy Virgin's sake ! " — 

" Lady, I know who sleeps by thy side 
But, lady, he will not awake. 

" By Eildon-tree, for long nights there, 

In bloody grave have I lain ; 
The mass and the death-prayer are said for 
me. 

But, lady, they are said in vain. 

" By the Baron's brand, near Tweed's fair 
strand. 
Most foully slain, I fell ; 
And my restless sprite on the beacon's 
height, 
For a space is doom'd to dwell, 

" At our trysting-place, for a certain space, 

I must wander to and fro : 
But I had not had power to come to thx 
bower 

Hadst thou not conjured me so." 

Love master'd fear — her brow she cross'dj 
" How, Richard, hast thou sped ? 

And art thou saved, or art thou lost? " — 
The vision shook his head ! 

" Who spilleth life, shall forfeit life ; 

•So bid thy lord believe : 
That lawless love is guilt above, 

This awful sign receive." 

He laid his left palm on an oaken beam : 

His right upon her liand : 
The lady shrunk, and fainting sunk, 

For it scorch'd like a fiery brand. 





CONTRIBUTIONS TO MINSTRELSY. 



349 



The sable score, of fingers four, 
Remains on that board impress*d; 

And for evermore that lady wore 
A covering on her wrist. ^ 

There is a nun in Dryburgh bower. 
Ne'er looks upon the sun ; 



There is a monk in Melrose tower 
He speaketh word to none. 

That nun, who ne'er beholds the day,^ 
That monk, who speaks to none — 

That nun was Smaylho'me's Lady Gray, 
That monk the bold Baron. 



it 



CADYOW CASTLE. 

The ruins of Cadyow or Cadzow Castle, the ancient baronial residence of the family of 
Hamilton, are situated upon the precipitous banks of the river Evan, about two miles above its 
junction with the Clyde. It was dismantled, in the conclusion of the Civil Wars, during the 
reign of the unfortunate Mary, to whose cause the house of Hamilton devoted themselves with 

fenerous ze.il, which occasioned their temporary obscurity, and very nearly their total ruin, 
'he situation of the ruins, erabosomed in wood, darkened by ivy and creeping shrubs, and 
overhanging the brawling torrent, is romantic in the highest degree. In the immediate vicinity 
of Cadyow is a grove of immense oaks, the remains of the Caledonian Forest, which anciently 
extended through the south of Scotland, from the eastern to the Atlantic Ocean. Some of 
these trees measure twenty-five feet and upwards, in circumference ; and the state of decay, in 
which they now appear, shows that they have witnessed the rites of the Druids. The whole 
scenery is included in the magnificent and extensive park of the Duke of Hamilton. There was 
long p'eserved in this forest the breed of the Scottish wild cattle, until their ferocity occasioned 
their being extirpated, about forty years ago. Their appearance was beautiful, being milk- 
white, with black muzzles, horns, and hoofs. The bulls are described by ancient authors as 
having white ninnes; but those of latter days had lost that peculiarity, perhaps by intermixture 
with the tame breed.* 

In detailing the death of the Regent Murray, which is made the subject of the following bal- 
lad, it would be injustice to my readers to use other words than those of Dr. Robertson, whose 
account of that memorable event forms a beautiful piece of historical painting. 

" Hamilton of Bothwellhaugh was the person who committed this barbarous action. He 
had been condemned to death soon after the battle of Langside, as we have already related, and 
owed his life to the Regent's clemency. But part of his estate had been bestowed upon one of 
the Regent's favorites,! who seized his house, and turned out his wife, naked, in a coid night 
into the open fields, where, before next morning, she became furiously mad. This injury made 
a deeper impression on him than the benefit he had received, and from that moment he vowed 
to be revenged of the Regent. Party rage strengthened and inflamed his private resentment. 
His kinsmen, the Hamiltons, applauded the enterprise. The maxim of that age justified the 
most desperate course he could take to obtam vengeance. He followed the Regent for some 
time, and watched for an opportunity to strike the blow. He resolved at last to wait till his 
enemy should arrive at Linlithgow, through he which was to pass in his way from Stirling to 
Edinburgh. He took his stand in a wooden gallery, t which had a window towards the street; 
spread a feather-bed on the floor, to hinder the noise of his feet from being heard, hung up _a 
black cloth behind him, that his shadow might not be observed from without, and, after all this 
preparation, calmly expected the Regent's approach, who had lodged, during the night in a 
house not far distant. Some indistinct information of the danger which threatened him had 
been conveyed to the Regent, and he paid so much regard to it that he resolved to return by 
the same gate through which he had entered, and to fetch a compass round the town. But, as 
the crowd about the gate was great, and he himself unacquainted with fear, he proceeded directly 
along the street; and the throng of people obliging him to move very slowly, gave the assassin 
time to take so true an aim, that he shot him, with a single bullet, through the lower part of his 
belly, and killed the horse of a gentleman who rode on his other side. His followers instantly 
endeavored to break into the house whence the blow had come ; but they found the door 

* They were formerly kept in the park of Drumlanrig, and are still to be seen at Chillingharo 
Castle in Northumberland. 

t This was Sir James Bellenden, Lord Justice-Clerk, whose shameful and inhuman rapacity 
occasioned the catastrophe in the text. — .Sfottiswoode. 

X The house to which this projecting gallery was attached was the property o{ the Archbishop 
of St. Andrews, a natural brother to the Duke of Chatelherault, and uncle to Bothwellhaugh. 
This, among many other circumstances, seems to evince the aid which Bothwellhaugh received 
from his clan in effecting his purpose. 



^^Q-S 






350 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



strongly barricaded, and, before it could be forced open, Hamilton had mounted a fleet horse,* 
which stood ready for him at a back passage, and was got far beyond their reach. The regent 
died the same night of hip. wound." — History of Scotland, book v. 

Bothwellhaugh rode straight to Hamilton, where he was received in triumph ; for the ashes 
of the houses in Clydesdale, which had been burned by Murray's army, were yet smoking: 
and party prejudice, the habits of the age, and the enormity of the provocation, seerried to his 
kinsmen to justify the deed. After a short abode at Hamilton, this fierce and determined man 
left .Scotland, and served in France, under the patronage of the family of Guise, to whom he 
was dou,btless recommended by having avenged the cause of their niece, Queen Mary, upon her 
ungrateful brother. DeThou has recorded that an attempt was made to cng:age him to assassin- 
ate Caspar de Coligni, the famous Admiral of France, and the buckler of the Husuenot cause. 
But the character of Bothwellhaugh was mistaken. He was no mercenary trader in blood, and 
rejected the offer with contempt and indignation. He had no authority, he said, from Scotland 
to commit murders in France ; he had avenged his own just quarrel, but he would neither for 
price nor prayer avenge that of another man. — Thuatms, cap. 46. 

The regent's death happened 23rd January, 1569. It is applauded or stigrnatized, by con- 
temporary historians, according to their religious or party prejudices. The triumph of Black- 
wood is unbounded. He not only extols the pious feat of Bothwellhaugh, " who," he observes, 
"satisfied with a single ounce of lead, him whose sacriligious avarice had stripped the me- 
tropolitan church of St. Andrews of its covering ; " but he ascribes it to immediate divine in- 
spiration, and the escape of Hamilton to little less than the miraculous interference of the 
Deity. — Jebb, vol. ii. p. 263. With equal injustice, it was, by others, made the ground of a 
general national reflection ; for, when Mather urged Berney to assassinate Burleigh, and quoted 
the example of Poltrot and Bothwellhaugh, the other conspirator answered that neyther 
Poltrot nor Hambleton did attempt their enterpr>'se without some reason or consideration to lead 
them to it ; as the one, by hyre, and promise of preferment or rewarde; the other, upon desper- 
ate mind of revenge, for a lyttle wrong done unto him, as the report goethe, according to the 
vyle trayterous disposysyon of the hoole natyon of the Scottes." — Murdin's State Papers, vol. 
I, p. 197. 

Addressed to the RioJit Honoral le Lady Anne Hamilton. 



When princely Hamilton's abode 
Ennobled Cadyow's Gothic towers. 

The song went round, the goblet fiow'd, 
And revel sped the laughing hours. 

Then, thrilling to the harp's gay sound, 
So sweetly rung each vaulted wall. 

And echoed light the dancer's bound, 
As mirth and music cheer'd the hall 

But Cadyow's towers, in ruin laid, 
And vaults, by ivy mantled o'er, 

Thrill to the music of the shade, 
Or echo Evan's hoarser roar. 

Yet still, of Cadyow's faded fame. 
You bid me tell a minstrel tale, 

And tune my harp, of Border frame, 
On the wild banks of Evandale. 

For thou, from scenes of courtly pride, 

From pleasure's lighter scenes, canst turn, 
To draw oblivion's pall aside 

And mark the long-forgotten urn. 
Then, noble maid ! at thy command. 

Again the crumbled lialls shall rise 
Lo ! as on Evan's banks we stand. 

The past returns — the present flies. 

* The gift of Lord John Hamilton, Com- 
mendator of Arbroath. 



Where, with the rock's wood-cover'd side, 
Were blended late the ruins green, 

Rise turrets in fantastic pride, 
And feudal banners flaunt between : 

Where the rude torrent's brawling course 
Was shagg'd with thorn and tangling sloe, 

The ashler buttress braves its force, 
And ramparts frown in battled row. 

'Tis night — the shade of keep and spire 
Obscurely dance on Evan's stream ; 

And on the wave the warder's fire 
Is checkering the moonlight beams. 

Fades slow their light ; the east is gray ; 

The weary warder leaves his tower ; 
Steeds snort, uncoupled stag-hoimds bay, 

And merry hunters quit the bower. 

The drawbridge falls — they hurry out — 
Clatters each plank and swinging chain, 

As, dashing o'er, the jovial rout 

Urge the shy steed, and slack the rein. 

First of his troop, the Chief rode on ; t 
His shouting merry-men throng behind ; 

t The head of the family of Hamilton, at 
this period, was James, Eari of Arran, Duke 
of Chatelherault, in France, and first peer oi 





^ 



CONTRIBUTIONS TO MINSTRELSY. 



The steed of princely Hamilton 
Was fleeter than the mountain wind. 

From the thick copse the roebucks bound, 
The startled /ed-deer scuds the plain, 

For the hoarse bugle's warrior-sound 
Has roused the mountain haunts again. 

Through the huge oaks of Evandale, 

Whose limbs a thousand years have 
worn, 

What sullen roar comes down the gale. 
And drowns the hunter's pealing horn? 

Mightiest of all the beasts of chase, 

That roam in woody Caledon, 
Crashing the forest in his race, 

The Mountain Bull comes thundering on. 

Fierce, on the hunter's quiver'd band, 

He rolls his eyes of swarthy glow, 
Spurns, with black hoof and horn, the 
sand, 

And tosses high his mane of snow. 
Aim'd well, the Chieftain's lance has 
flown ; 

Struggling in blood the savage lies ; 
His voar is sunk in hollow groan — 

Sound, merry huntsmen ! sound the 
pryse! ' 
'Tis noon — against the knotted oak 

The hunters rest the idle spear ; 
Curls through the trees the slender smoke. 

Where yeomen dight the woodland 
cheer. 
Proudly the Chieftain mark'd his clan, 

On greenwood lap all careless thrown, 
Yet miss'd his eye the boldest man 

That bore the name of Hamilton. 

" Why fills not Bothwellhaugh his place. 
Still wont our weal and woe to share ? 

Why comes he not our sport to grace ? 
Why share's he not our hunter's fare ? " — 

Stern Claud replied,^ with darkening face, 

(Gray Paisley's haughty lord was he,) 
'' At merry feast, or buxom chase. 

No more the warrior wilt thou see. 
" Few suns have set since Woodhouselee^ 

Saw Bothwellhaugh's bright goblets 
foam. 
When to his hearths, in social glee, 

The war-worn soldier turn'd him home. 

the Scottish realm. In 1560 lie was appohited 
by Queen Mary her lieutenant-general in 
Scotland, undei the singular title of her 
adopted father. 



" There, wan from her maternal throes, 
His Margaret, beautiful and mild, 

Sate in her bower, a pallid rose. 

And peaceful nursed lier new-born child. 

" O change accursed ! past are those days \ 
False Murray's ruthless spoilers came, 

And, for the heart's dornestic blaze. 
Ascends destruction's volumed flame. 

" What sheeted phantom wanders wild. 
Where mountain Eske through woot' 
land flows. 

Her arms enfold a shadowy child — 
Oh ! is it she, the pallid rose ? 

" The wilder'd traveller sees her glide, 
And hears her feeble voice with awe — 

' Revenge,' she cries, 'on Murray's pride ! 
And woe for injured Bothwellhaugh ! ' " 

He ceased — and cries of rage and grief 
Burst mingling from the kindred band. 

And half arose the kindling Chief, 

And half unsheathed his Arran brand. 

But who, o'er bush, o'er stream and rock, 
Rides headlong with resistless speed. 

Whose bloody poniard's frantic stroke 
Drives to the leap his jaded steed ; * 

Whose cheek is pale, whose eyeballs glare, 

As one some vision'd sight that saw. 
Whose hands are bloody, loose his hair ?— 

'Tis he ! 'tis he! 'tis Bothwellhaugh. 
From gory selle,* and reeling steed, 

Sprung the fierce horseman with a bound, 
And, reeking from the recent deed. 

He dash'd his carbine on the ground. 

Sternly he spoke — " 'Tis sweet to hear 

In good greenwood the bugle blown, 
But sweeter to Revenge's ear, 

To drink a tyrant's dying groan. 
" Your slaughter'd quarry proudly trode. 

At dawning morn, o'er dale and down, 
But prouder base-born Murray rode 

Through old Linlithgow's crowded town 

" From the wild Border's hiunbled side,' 
In haughty triumph marched he. 

While Knox relax'd his bigot pride. 
And smiled, the traitorous pomp to see. 

" But can stern Power, with all his vaunt. 
Or Pomp, with all Iter courtly glare, 

The settled heart of ^'engeance daunt, 

Or change the purpose of Despair! 



^i'd'/Zr— saddle. A word used by Spencer. 
aud other ancient authors- 




^ 




352 



SCOTT'S FOE TIC A L IVOUKS. 



" With hackbut Dent,^ my secret stand, 
Dark as the purposed deed, 1 chose, 

And mark'd, where, mingling in his band, 
Troop 'd Scottish spikes and Enghsh bows. 

•' Dark Morton,* girt witli many a spear, 
Murder's foul minion, led the van ; 

And clash'd their broadswords in the rear 
The wild Macfarlane's plaided clan.'' 

" Glencairn and stout Parkhead ^ were nigh, 
Obsequious at their Regent's rein, 

And haggard Lindesay's iron eye, 
That saw fair Mary weep in vain.9 

•• 'Mid pennon'd spears, a steely grove, 
Proud Murray's plumage floated high. 

Scarce could his trampling charger move, 
So close the minions crowded nigh.'° 

'' From the raised vizor's shade, his eye, 
Dark-rolling, glanced the ranks along, 

And his steel truncheon, waved on high, 
Seem'd marshalling the iron throng. 

** But yet his sadden'd brow confessed 
A passing shade of doubt and awe ; 

Some fiend was whispering in his breast, 
' Beware of injured Bothwellhaugh ! ' 

" The death shot parts — the charger 
springs — 

Wild rises tumult's startling roar ! 
And Murray's plumy helmet rings— 

— Rings on the ground, to rise no more. 

" What joy the raptured youth can feel. 
To hear her love the loved one tell — 

Or he, who broaches on his steel 
The wolf, by whom his infant fell ! 



" But dearer to my injured eye 

To see m dust proud Murray roll ; 

And mine was ten times trebled joy, 
To hear him groan his felon soid. 

" My Margaret's spectre glided near , 
With pride her bleeding victim saw •, 

And shriek'd in his death-deafen'd ear, 
' Remember injured Bothwellhaugh ! ' 

" Then speed thee, noble Chatlerault ! 

Spread to the wind thy banner'd tree ! t 
Each warrior bend his Clydesdale bow! — 

Murray is fall'n, and Scotland free ! " 

Vaults every warrior to his steed ; 

Loud bugles join their wild acclaim- - 
" Mu.rray is fall'n, and Scotland freed ! 

Couch, Arran ! couch thy spear of 
fiame ! " 

But, see ! the minstrel vision fails — 

The glimmering spears are seen no 
more ; 

The shouts of war die on the gales. 
Or sink in Evan's lonely roar. 

For the loud bugle, pealing high, 

The blackbird whistles down the vale, 

And sunk in ivied ruins lie 

The banner'd towers of Evandale. 

For Chiefs, intent on bloody deed, 

And Vengeance shouting o'er the slain^ 

Lo ! high-born Beauty rules the steed, 
Or graceful guides the silken rein. 

And long may Peace and Plenty own 
The maids who list the minstrel's tale ; 

Nor e'er a ruder guest be known 
On the fair banks of Evandale I 



THE GRAY BROTHER. 

A FRAGMENT. 

The imperfect state of this ballad, wliich was written several years a2;o, is not a circumstance 
affected for the purpose of giving it that peculiar interest which is often found to arise trom 
ungratified curiosity. On the ccntrary, jt was the Editor's intention to have completed the 
tale, if he had found himself able to succeed to his own satisfaction. Yieldiiig to the 
opinion of persons, whose judgment, if not biased by the partiality ot friendship, is entitled 
to deference, he has preferred inserting these verses as a fragment, to his intention of entirely 
suppressing them. 

The tradition upon which the tale is founded, regards a house upon the barony of Gilmerton, 
near Lasswade, in Mid- Lothian. This building, now called Gilmerton Grange, was originally 



* Of this noted person, it is enough to say, 
tli:tt he was active in tlie murder of David 
Rizzio, and at least privy to that of Darnley. 



T An oak, half-sawn, with th^ motto through, 
is an ancient cogni;tance of the family of Ham- 
ilton. 






CONTRIBUTIONS TO MINSTRELSY. 



353 



named Bumdale, from the following tragic adventure. The baron of Gilmerton belonged, of 
yore, to a gentleman named Heron, who had one beautiful daughter. This young lady was 
seduced by the Abbot of Newbattle, a richly endowed abbey, upon the banks of the South Esk, 
row a seat of the Marquis of Lothian. Heron came to the knowledge of this circumstance, and 
learned also that the lovers carried on their guilty intercourse by the connivance of the lady's 
nurse, who lived at this house of Gilmerton Grange, or Burndale. He formed a resolution of 
bloody vengeance, undeterred by the supposed sanctity of the clerical character, or by the 
stronger claims of natural affection. Choosing, therefore, a dark and windy night, when the 
objects of his vengeance were engaged in a stolen interview, he set fire to a stack of dried thorns 
and other combustibles, whieh he had caused to be piled against the house, and reduced to a pile 
of glowing ashes the dwelling, with all its inmates. 

The scene with which the ballad opens, was suggested by the following curious passage, ex- 
tracted from the life of Alexander Peden, one of the wandering and persecutt d teachers of the 
sect of Cameronians, during the reign of Charles II. and his successor, James. This person was 
supposed by his followers, and, perhaps, really believed himself, to be possessed of supernatural 
gifts; for the wild scenes whieh they frequented, and the constant dangers which were incurred 
through their proscription, deepened upon their minds the gloom of superstition, so general in 
that age. 

About the same time he [Pedan] came to Andrew Normand's house, in the parish of Allo- 
way, in the shire of Ayr, being to preach at night in his barn. After he came in, he halted a 
little, leaning upon a chair-back, with his face covered ; when he lifted up his head, he said, 
'They are in this house that I have not one word of salvation unto; ' he halted a little again, 
saying, 'This is strange, that the devil will not go out, that we may begin our work." Then 
there was a woman went out, ill-looking upon almost all her life, and to her dying hour, for a 
witch, with many presumptions of the same. It escaped me, in the former passages, what 
John Murhead (whom I have often mentioned) told me, that when he came from Ireland to 
Galloway, he was at family worship, and giving some notes of the Scripture read, when a 
very ill-looking man came, and sat down within the door, at the back of the kalian [partition 
of the cottage] : immediately he halted and said, ' There is some unhappy body just now come 
into this house. I charge him to go out, and not stop my mouth! ' This person went out, and 
he insisted {want out), yet he saw him neither come in nor go out." — T/ie Life and Prophecies 
of Mr. Alexander Peden, late Minister of ike Gospel at New Gletiluce, in Galloway, part 
ii. § 26. 

A friendly correspondent remarks, "that the incapacity of proceeding in the performance of 
a religious duty, when a contaminated person is present, is of much higher antiquity than the 
era of the Rev. Mr. Alexander Peden." — Vide Hygini Fabulos, cap. 26. ^^ Medea Corinthe 
exul, Athenas, ad Aigeutn Pandionis filium dez'euit in hospitiuin, eique nupsit. 

" Pestea sacerdos Diance Mdeaii exagitare coepit, vegique ?iegabat sacra a caste facere 

jiosse, eo quod in ea civitate esset mulier venejica et sbelerata ; tvnc exulatur.' ' 



1 



The Pope he was saying the high, high 
mass, 
All on St. Peter's day. 
With the power to him given, by the saint 
in heaven. 
To wash men's sins away. 

The Pope he was saying the blessed mass, 

And the people kneel'd around. 
And from each man's soul his sins did 
pass. 

As he kissed the holy ground. 



And all, among the crowded throng, 
Was still both limb and tongue. 

While through vaulted roof and 
aloof, 
The holy accents rung. 

At the holiest word he quiver'd for fear, 
And falter'd in the sound — 

And, when he would the chalice rear, 
He dropp'd it to the ground. 



aisles 




" The breath of one of evil deed 

Pollutes our sacred day ; 
He has no portion in our creed. 

No part in what I say. 

"A being, whom no blessed word 
To ghostly peace can bring ; 

A wretch, at whose approach abhorr'd, 
Recoils each holy thing. 

" Up, up, unhappy ! haste, arise! 

My adjuration fear! 
I charge thee not to stop my voice, 

Nor longer tarry here! " 

Amid them all a pilgrim kneel'd. 

In gown of sackcloth gray ; 
Far journeying from his native field, 

He first saw Rome that day. 

For forty days and nights so drear, 

I ween he had not spoke, 
And^ save with bread and water clear, 

His fast he ne'er had broke. 




I 



d 




354 



SCOTT'S rOETICAL WORKS. 



Amid the penitential flock, 

Seem'd none more bent to pray ; 

But, when the H0I3' Father spoke. 
He rose and went his way. 

Again unto his native land 

His weary course he drew, 
To Lothian's fair and fertile strand, 

And Pentland's mountains blue. 

His unblest feet his native seat, 

Mid Eske's fair woods, regain ; 
Through woods more fair no stream more 
sweet 

Rolls to the eastern main. 

And lords to meet the pilgrim came, 

And vassals bent the knee ; 
For all 'mid Scotland's chiefs of fame, 

Was none more famed than he. 

And boldly for his country, still, 

In battle he had stood, 
Ay, even when on the banks of Till 

Her noblest pour'd their blood. 

Sweet are the paths, O passing sweet I 
By Eske's fair streams that run. 

O'er airy steep, through copsewood deep, 
Impervious to the sun. 

There the rapt poet's step may rove, 

And yield the muse the day ; 
There Beauty, led by timid Love, 

May shun the tell-tale ray ; 

From that fair dome, where suit is paid 

By blast of bugle free,' 
To Auchendinny's hazel glade,^ 

And haunted Woodhouselee. 

Who knows not Melville's beechy grove,^ 

And Roslin's rocky glen,-* 
Dalkeith, which all the virtues love,' 

And classic Hawthornden ? * 

Yet never a path, from day to day, 

The pilgrim's footsteps range, 
Save but the solitary way 

To Burndale's ruin'd grange. 

A woful place was that, I ween. 

As sorrow could desire ; 
For nodding to the fall was each crumbling 
wall. 

And the roof was scathed with fire. 

It fell upon a summer's eve. 

While, on Camethy's head. 
The last faint gleams of the sun's low 
beams 

Had streak'd the gray with red ; 



And the convent bell did vespers tell, 

Newbattle's oaks among, 
And mingled with the solemn knell 

Our Ladye's evening song ; 

The heavy knell, the choir's taint swell. 

Came slowly down the wind. 
And on the pilgrim's ear they fell, 

As his wonted path he did find. 

Deep sunk in thought, I ween, he was. 

Nor ever raised his eye, 
Until he came to that dreary place, 

Which did all in ruins lie. 

He gazed on the walls, so scathed with fire. 

With many a bitter groan — 
And there was aware of a Gray Friar, 

Resting him on a stone. 

" Now, Christ thee save ! " said the Gray 
Brother ; 

" Some pilgrim thou seemest to be." 
But in sore amaze did Lord Albert gaze. 

Nor answer again made he. 

" O come ye from east, or come ye from 
west. 
Or bring reliques from over the sea ; 
Or come ye from the shrine of James the 
divine. 
Or St. John of Beverley ? " 

" I come not from the shrine of St. James 
the divine. 
Nor bring reliques from over the sea \ 
I bring but a curse from our father, the 
Pope, 
Which forever will cling to me." — 

" Now, woful pilgrim, say not so ! 

But kneel thee down to me. 
And shrive thee so clean of thy deadly sin, 

That absolved thou mayst be." — 

" And who art thou, thou Grav Brother, 

That I should shrive to thee. 
When He, to whom are given the keys of 
earth and heaven. 

Has no power to pardon me ? " — 

"01 am sent from a distant clime, 

Five thousand miles awav, 
And all to absolve a foul, foul crime, 

Done here 'twixt night and day." 
Tha pilgrim kneel'd him on the sand, 

And thus began hi«i save — 
When on his neck an ice-cnld hand 

Did that Grav Brother lave. 






BALLADS, TRANSLATED, OR IMITA- 
TED, FROM THE GERMAN, &c. 



WILLIAM AND HELEN. 

1796. 

IMITATED FROM THE " LENORE " OF BURGER. 



From heavy dreams fair Helen rose, 
And eyed the dawning red : 

" Alas, my love, thou tarriest long ! 
O art thou false or dead ? " 



With gallant Fred'rick's princely power 

He sought the bold Qrusade ; 
But not a word from Judah's wars 

Told Helen how he sped. 
III. 
With Paynim and with Saracen 

At length a truce was made, 
And ev'ry knight return'd to dry 

The tears his love had shed. 



Our gallant host was homeward bound 

With many a song of joy , 
Green waved the laurel in each plume, 

The badge of victory. 
V. 
And old and young, and sire and son, 

To meet them crowd the way, 
With shouts, and mirth, and melody, 

The debt of love to pay. 

VI. 

Full many a maid her true-love met, 
And sobb'd in his embrace. 

And flutt'ring joy in tears and smiles 
Array'd full many a face. 

VII. 

Nor joy nor smile for Helen sad ; 

She sought the host n vain ; 
For none could tell her William's fate, 

If faithless, or if slain 



The martial band is past and gone. 

She rends her raven hair. 
And in distraction's bitter mood 

She weeps with wild despair. 



" O rise, my child," her mother said, 
" Nor sorrow thus in vain ; 

A perjured lover's fleeting heart 
No tears recall again." — 



" O mother, what is gone, is gone, 

What's lost forever lorn . 
Death, death alone can comfort me ; 

O had I ne'er been born ! 

XI. 

" O break, my heart, — O break at once ! 

Drink my life-blood. Despair ! 
No joy remains on earth for me, 
j For me in heaven no share," — 

XII. 

" enter not in judgment, Lord ! " 
i The pious mother prays ; 
" Impute not guilt to thy frail child 1 
She knows not what she says. 

XIII. 

" O say thy Pater-noster, child ! 

O turn to God and grace ! 
His will, that turn'd thy bliss to bale. 

Can change thy bale to bliss." — 

XIV. 

" O mother, mother, what is bliss ? 

O mother, what is bale ? 
My William's love was heaven on earth, 

Without it earth is hell. 



•^-1- 



ji; 



^ 



356 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 




" Why should I pray to rutliless Heaven, 
Since my loved William's slain? 

-I only pray'd for William's sake, 
And all my prayers were vain."— 

XVI. 

•' O take the sacrament, my child, 
And check these tears that flow ; 

By resignation's humble prayer, 
O hallow'd be thy woe 1 " — 

XVII 

'' No sacrament can quencli this fire, 
Or slake this scorching pain ; 

No sacrament can bid the dead 
Arise and live asrain. 



" break, my heart, — O break at once ! 

Be thou my god, Despair ! 
Heaven's heaviest blow has fallen on me. 

And vain each fruitless prayer." — 



" O enter not in judgment, Lord, 

With thy frail child of clay ! 
She knows not what her tongue has spoke ; 

Impute it not, I pray ! 

XX. 

" Forbear, my child, this desperate woe, 

And turn to God and grace ; 
Well can devotion's heavenly glow, 

Convert thy bale to bliss."— 

XXI. 

''O mothei, mother, what is bliss? 

O mother, what is bale ? 
Without my William what were heaven, 

Oi with him what were hell ? " — 

XXII. 

Wild she arraigns the eternal doom. 

Upbraids each sacred power, 
rill, spent, she sought her silent room. 

All in the lonely tower. 

XXIII. 

She beat her breast, she wrung her hands. 

Till sun and day were o'er. 
And through the glimmering lattice shone 

The twinkling of the star. 

XXIV. 

Then, crash ! the heavy drawbridge fell 
That o'er the moat was hung; 

And, clatter ! clatter ! on its boards 
The lioof of courser rung. 



XXV. 

The clank of echoing steel was heard, 

As off the rider bounded , 
And slowly on the winding stair 

A heavy footstep sounded. 



and 



XXVI. 

hark ! 



knock — Tap 



And hark ! 
tap! 

A rustling stifled noise ; — 
Door-latch and tinkling staples ring ; — 

At length a whispering voice. 

XXVII. 

" Awake, awake, arise, my love ! 

How, Helen, dost thou fare ? 
Wak'st thou, or sleep'st i laugh'st thou, or 
weep'st ? 

Hast thought on me, my fair ? "— 

XXVIII. 

" My love ! my love ! — so late by night !— 

I waked, I wept for thee ; 
Much have 1 borne since dawn of morn ; 

Where, William, could'st thou be ! " — 

XXIX. 

" We saddle late — from Hungary 

I rode since darkness fell ; 
And to its bourne we both return 

Before the matin-bell." 



" O rest this night within my arms, 

And warm thee in their fold ! 
Chill howls through hawthorn bush the 
wind : — 

My love is deadly cold " — 

XXXI. 

" Let the wind howl through hawthorn 
bush ! 

This night we must away ; 
The steed is wight, the spur is bright ; 

I cannot stay till day. 

XXXII. 

" Busk, busk, and boune ! * Thou mount's 
behind 

Upon my black barb steed . 
O'er stock and stile, a hundred miles, 

We haste to bridal bed.'' — 

XXXIIl. 

" To-night — to-night a hundred miles ! — 
O dearest William, stay ! 



• Busk— to dress. Boune — to prepart one's 
self for a journey. 




BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN. 



357 



The bell strikes twelve — dark, dismal 
hour ! 
O wait, my love, till day ! "— 

XXXIV. 

" Look here, look here — the moon shines 
clear — 

Full fast I ween we ride ; 
Mount and away ! for ere the day 

We reach our bridal bed. 

XXXV. 

^ The black barb snorts, the bridle rings ; 

Haste, busk, and boune, and seat thee ! 
The feast is made, the chamber spread, 

The bridal guests await thee." — 

XXXVI, 

Strong love prevail'd : She busks, she 
bounes, 

She mounts the barb behmd, 
And round her darling William's waist 

Her lily arms she twined. 

XXXVII. 

And, hurry ! hurry ! off they rode. 

As fast as fast might be ; 
Spurn'd from the courser's thundering 
heels 

The flashing pebbles flee. 

XXXVIII. 

And on the right, and on the left, 

Ere they could snatch a view. 
Fast, fast each mountain, mead, and plain. 

And cot, and castle, flew. 

XXXIX. 

* Sit fast — dost fear ? — The moon shines 
clear — 

Fleet goes my barb — keep hold ! 
Fear'st thou ? " — " O no ! " she faintly said ; 

" But why so stern and cold ? 

XL. 

'What yonder rings? what yonder sings? 

Why shrieks the owlet gray ? " 
"'Tis death-hells' clang, 'tis funeral song. 

The body to the clay. 

XLI. 

" With song and clang, at morrow's 
dawn, 

Ye may inter the dead : 
To-night I ride with my younjr bride, 

To deck our bridal bed. 

XLII. 

"Come with thy choir, thou coffin'd 
guest, 
To swell our nuptial song I 



Come, priest, to bless our marriage feast I 
Come all, come all along ! " — 

XLIII 

Ceased clang and song ; down sunk the 
bier ; 

The shrouded corpse arose ■ 
And, hurry ! hurry ! all the train 

The thundering steed pursues, 

XLIV. 

And, forward ! forward ! on they go; 

High snorts the straining steed ; 
Thick pants the rider's laboring breath, 

As headlong on they speed. 

XLV. 

" O William, why this savage haste ? 

And where thy bridal bed ? " — 
" 'Tis distant far, low, damp, and chili, 

And narrow, trustless maid." — 

XLVl. 

" No room for me ? " — " Enough for 
both ;— 
Speed, speed, my barb, thy course ! " 
O'er thundering bridge, through boihng 
surge. 
He drove the furious horse. 

XLVIl. 

Tramp ! tramp ! along the land they rode,* 
Splash ! splash ! along the sea ; 

The scourge is wight, the spur is bright, 
The flashing pebbles flee. 

XLVIII. 

Fled past on right and left how fast 
Each forest, grove, and bower ! 

On right and left fled past how fast 
Each city, town, and tower ! 

* In the preface to the edition of " Williara 
and Helen," published anonymously m 1796 
Sir Walter Scott says : — " The first two Unes 
of the forty-seventh stanza, descriptive of the 
speed of the lovers, may perhaps bring to the 
recollection of many a passage extremely simi- 
lar in a translation of "Leonora," which first 
appeared 111 the Monthly Magazine . In jus- 
tice to himself, the translator thinks it his duty 
to acknowledge that his curiosity was first 
attracted to this truly romantic story by a gen- 
tleman, who having heard " Leonora " once 
read in manuscript, could only recollect the 
general outlines, and a part of a couple t which, 
from the singularity of its structure and fre- 
quent recurrence, had remained impressed 
upon his memory. It, from despair of render- 
ing the passage so happily, the property of 
another has been invaded, the translator makes 
the only atonement now in his power by re* 
storing it thus publicly to the rightful owner. 





358 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



XLIX. 

" Dost fear ? dost fear ? The inoon shines 
clear, 

Dost fear to ride with me ? — 
Hurrah ! hurrah ! the dead can ride ! " 

" O William, let them be !— 

L. 

•' See there, see there ! What yonder 
swings 

And creaks 'mid whistling rain ? " — 
" Gibbet and steel, th' accursed wheel ; 

A murderer in his chain. — 



" Hollo ! thou felon, follow here : 

To bridal bed we ride ; 
And thou shalt prance a fetter dance 

Before me and my bride."' — 



And, hurry ! hurry ! clash, clash, clash ! 

The wasted form descends ; 
And fleet as wind through hazel bush 

The wild career attends. 



Tramp ! tramp ! along the land they rode, 
Splash ! splash ! along the sea ; 

The scourge is red, the spur drops blood, 
The flashing pebbles flee. 



How fled what moonshine faintly show'd 1 
How fled what darkness hid ! 

How fled the earth beneath their feet. 
The heaven above their head 1 



" Dost fear ? dost fear .? The moon shines 
clear. 

And well the dead can ride ; 
Does faithful Helen fear for them ? " — 

'• O leave in peace the dead ! " — 



" Barb ! Barb! methinks 1 bear the cock ; 

The sand will soon be run : 
Barb ! Barb ! I smell the morning air ; 

The race is wellnigh done." — 

LVII. 

Tramp ! tramp ! along the land they rode ; 

Splash! splash ! along the sea ; 
The scourge is red, the spur drops blood, 

The flashing pebbles flee. 



" Hurrah ! hurrah ! well ride the dead ; 

The bride, the bride is come ; 
And soen we reach the bridal bed. 

For, Helen, here's my home." — 



Reluctant on its rusty hinge 

Revolved an iron door, 
And by the pale moon's setting beam 

Were seen a church and tower. 



With many a shriek and cry whiz round 
The birds of midnight, scared ; 

And rustling like autumnal leaves 
Unhallowed ghosts were heard. 



O'er many a tomb and tombstone pale 
He spurr'd the fiery horse, 

Till sudden at an open grave 

He check'd the wondrous course. 



The falling gauntlet quits tiie rein, 
Down drops the casque of steel. 

The cuirass leaves his shrinking side, 
The spur his gory heel. 



The eyes desert the naked skull, 
The mould'ring flesh the bone, 

Till Helen's lily arms entwine 
A ghastly skeleton. 

LXIV. 

The furious barb snorts fire and foam. 

And, with a fearful bound, 
Dissolves at once in empty air, 

And leaves her on the ground. 

LXV. 

Half seen by fits, by fits half heard, 

Pale spectres flit along. 
Wheel round the maid in dismal dance. 

And howl the funeral song : 

LXVI. 

" E'en when the heart 's with anguish cleft, 

Revere the doom of Heaven, 
Her soul is from her body reft : 

Her spirit be forgiven 1" 






" Tramp ! tramp ! along the land they rode, 
Splash ! splash ! along the sea." — Page 358. 



K 



BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN. 



359 



THE WILD HUNTSMAN.* 

[1796.] 

This is a translation, or rather and imitation, of the Wilde J'-iger of the German poet Burger. 
The tradition upon which it is founded bears, that formerly a Wildgrave, or lieeper of a royal 
forest, named Falkenburg, was so much addicted to the pleasures of the chase, and otherwise 
so extremely profligate and cruel, that he not only followed this unhallowed amusement on the 
Sabbath, and other days consecrated to religious duty, but accompanied it with the most un- 
heavd-of oppression upon the ]3oor peasants who were under his vassalage. When this second 
Nimrod died, the people adopted a superstition, founded probably on the many various uncouth 
sounds heard in the depth of a German forest, during the silence of the night. They conceived they 
still heard the cry of the Wildgrave's hounds ; and the well known cheer of the deceased hunter, 
the sounds of his horse's fee't, and the rustling of the branches before tlie game, the pack, and 
the sportsmen, are also distinctlv discriminated ; but the phantoms are rarelj', if ever, visible. 
Once, as a benighted Chass,':ir hL-ard this infernal chase uass by him, at the sound of the halloo, 
with which the Soectre Huntsman cheered his hounds, he could not refrain from crying " Gliick 
zu Falkenburg 1 " [Good sport to ye, Falkenburg ! ] '• Dost thou wish me good sport ? " answered 
a hoarse voice ; "thou shalt share the game ; " and there was thrown at him what seemed to be 
a huge piece of foul carrion. The da-'ing Chasseur lost two of his best horses soon after, and 
never perfectly recovered the personal effects of this ghostly greeting. This tale, though told 
with some variations, is universally believed all over Germany. 

The French had a similar tradition concerning an aerial hunter, who infested the forest of 
Fontainebleau. 



The Wildgrave wJnds his bugle horn, 
To horse, to horse ! halloo, halloo ! 

His fiery courser snuffs the morn, 

And thronging serfs their lord pursue. 

The eager pack, from couples freed, 

Dash through the brush, the brier, the 
brake ; 
While answering hound, and horn, and 
steed, 
The mountain echoes startling wake 

The beams of God's own hallow'd day 
Had painted yonder spire with gold, 

And, caning sinful man to pray, 

Loud, long, and deep the bell had toll'd : 

But still the Wildgrave onward rides ; 

Halloo, halloo ! and, hark again ! 
When spurring from opposing sides, 

Two Stranger Horsemen join the train 

Who was each Stranger, left and right, 
Well may I guess, but dare not tell ; 

The right-hand steed was silver white, 
The left, the swarthy hue of hell. 

The right-hand Horseman young and fair, 
His smile was like the morn of May 

The left, from eye of tawny glare, 
Shot midnight lightning's lurid ray. 

He waved his huntsman's cap on high. 
Cried, " Welcome, welcome, noble lord ! 



What sport can earth, or sea, or sky, 
To match the princely chase, afford .'' " 

" Cease thy loud bugle's clanging knell," 
Cried the fair youth, with silver voice ; 

" And for devotion's choral swell 

" Exchange the rude unhallow'd noise. 

" To-day the ill-omen'd chase forbear. 
Yon bell yet summons to the fane ; 

To-day the Warning Spirit hear, 

To-morrow thou mayst mourn in vain."- 

" Away, and sweep the glades along ! " 
The Sable Hunter hoarse replies ; 

" To muttering monks leave matm-song, 
And bells, and books, and mysteries." 

The Wildgrave spurr'd his ardent steed, 
And, launching forward with a bound, 
" Who, for thy drowsy priestlike rede, 
■ Would leave the jovial horn and hound 

" Hence, if our manly sport offend ! 

With pious fools go chant and pray : — 
Well hast thou spoke, my dark-brown'd 
friend ; 

Halloo, halloo ! and, hark away ! " 

The Wildgrave spurr'd his courser light, 
O'er moss and moor, o'er holt and hill ; 

And on the left and on the right. 

Each stranger Horseman follow'd still. 



-Published (1796) with " William and Helen, entitled " The Chase." 



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360 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 






Up springs, from yonder tangled thorn, 


Earnest the right-hand Stranger pleads, 




"A stag more white than moantam snow : 


The left still cheering to the prey ; 






And louder rung the Wildgrave's horn, 
" Hark forward, forward ! holla, ho ! " 


The Earl nor prayer nor pity heeds. 




* 


But furious keeps the onward way '^ ^ 






A heedless wretch has cross'd the way ; 


" Unmanner'd dog ! To stop my sport, 






He gasps the thundering hoofs lielow ;— 


'Vain were thy cant and beggar whine, 






But, live who can, or die who ma^> , 


Though human spirits, of thy sort. 






Still, " Forward, forward ! " on they go. 


Were tenants of these carrion kine ! " 






See, where yon simple fences meet, 


Again he winds his bugle-horn, 






A field with Autumn's blessings crown'd ; 


" Hark forward, forward, holla, ho ! " 






See, prostrate at the Wildgrave's feet, 


And through the herd, in ruthless scorn, 






A husbandman with toil embrown'd • 


He cheers his furious hounds to go. 






" O mercy, mercy, noble lord ! 


In heaps the throttled victims fall •, 






Spare the poor's pittance," was his cry, 


Down sinks their mangled herdsman 






" Earn'd by the sweat these brows have 


near ; 






pour'd. 


The murderous cries the stag appal, — 






In scorching hour of fierce July " — 


Again he starts, new-nerved by fear. 






Earnest the right-hand Stranger pleads, 


With blood besmear'd, and white with 






The left still cheering to the prey ; 


foam, 






The impetuous Earl no warning heeds. 


Wliile big the tears of anguish pour, 






But furious holds the onward way. 


He seeks, amid the forest's gloom. 
The humble hermit's hallow'd bower. 






" Away, thou hound ! so basely born, 








Or dread the scourge's echoing blow ! " — 


But man and horse, and horn and hound, 






I'hen loudly rung his bugle horn. 


Fast rattling on his traces go , 






" Hark forward, forward, holla, ho ! 


The sacred chapel rung around 






So said, so done : — A single bound 


With, '• Hark away ! and, holla, ho ! " 






Clears the poor laborer's humble pale , 


All mild, amid the rout profane. 






Wild follows man, and horse, and hound, 


The holy hermit pour'd his prayer ; 






Like dark December's stormy gale. 


*' Forbear with blood God's house to s 
Revere his altar, and forbear I 






And man and horse, and hound and horn 








Destructive sweep the field along ; 


" The meanest brute has rights to plead. 






While, joymg o'er the wasted corn, 


Which, wrong'd by cruelty, or pride. 






Fell Famine marks the maddening 


Draw vengeance on the ruthless head : — • 






throng. 


Be warn'd at length, and turn aside." 






Again uproused, the timorous prey 


Still the Fair Horseman anxious pleads ; 






Scours moss and liioor, and holt and hill ; 


The Black, wild whooping, points the 






Hard run, he feels his strength decay, 


prey : — 






And trusts for life his simple skill. 


Alas ! the Earl no warning heeds. 






Too dangerous solitude appear'd ; 


But frantic keeps the forward way 






He seeks the shelter of the crowd ; 


" Holy or not, or right or wrong, 






Amid the flock's domestic herd 


. Thy altar, and its rites, I spurn ; 






His harmless head he hopes to shroud. 


Not sainted martyrs' sacred song, 






O'er moss and moor, and holt and hill. 


Not God himself, shall make me turn 1 '" 






His track the steady blood-hounds trace ; 


He spurs his horse, he winds his horn. 






O'er moss and moor, unwearied still. 


" Hark forward, forward, holla, ho ! " 






The furious Earl pursues the chase. 


But off, on whirlwind's pinion borne ; 






. T^ Full lowly did the herdsman fall ;— 


The stag, the hut, the hermit, go. 

5\ r 






" spare, thou noble Baron, spare 


And horse and man, and horn and hound 






These herds, a widow's little all : 


And clamor of the chase, was gone ; 






These flocks, an orphan's fleecy 


For hoofs, and howls, and bugle-sound* 






carel "— 


A deadly silence reign'd alone 








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BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN. 



361 



Wild gazed the affrighted Earl around ; 

He strove in vain to wake his horn, 
In vain to call ; for not a sound 

Could from his anxious lips be borne. 

He listens for his trusty hounds ; 

No distant baying reach'd his ears ; 
His courser, rooted to the ground, 

The quickening spur unmindful bears 

Still dark and darker frown the shades, 
Dark as the darkness of the grave ; 

And not a sound the still invades, 
Save what a distant torrent gave 

High o'er the sinner's humbled head 
At length the solemn silence broke \ 

And, from a cloud of swarthy red, 
The awful voice of thunder spoke 

*' Oppressor of creation fair ! 

Apostate Spirits' harden'd tofl ! 
Scorner of God ! Scourge of the poor ! 

The measure of thy cup is full. 

" Be chased for ever through the -^ooA ; 

For ever roam the affrighted wild ; 
And let thy fate instruct the proud, 

God's meanest creature is his child." 

'Twas hush'd : — One flash, of sombre glare, 
With yellow tinged the forests brown ; 

Uprose the Wildgrave's bristling hair, 
And horror chill'd each nerve and bone. 

Cold pour'd the sweat in freezing rill ; 
A rising wind began to sing ; 



And louder, louder, louder still. 

Brought storm and tempest on its wing- 
Earth heard the call ; — her entrails rend i 

From yawning rifts, with many a yell, 
Mix'd with sulphmeous flames ascend 

The misbegotten dogs of hell. 

What ghastly Huntsman next arose, 
Well may I guess, but dare not tell ; 

His eye like midnight lightning glows, 
His steed the swarthy hue of hell. 

The Wildgrave flies o'er bush and thorn, 
With many a sliriek of helpless woe ; 

Behind him hound, and horse, and horn, 
And, " Hark away, and holla, ho ! " 

With wild despair's reverted eye, 

Close, close behind he marks the throng. 

With bloody fangs and eager cry ; 
In frantic fear he scours along. — 

Still, still shall last the dreadful chase, 
Till time itself shall have an end ; 

By day, they scour earth's cavern 'd space, 
At midnight's witching hour, ascend. 

This is the horn, and hound, and horse. 
That oft the iated peasant hears ; 

Appall'd, he signs the frequent cross. 
When the wild din invades his ears. 

The wakeful priest oft drops a tear 
For human pride, for human woe. 

When, at his midnight mass he hears 
The infernal cry of, " Holla, ho I " 



THE FIRE-KING. 

"The blessings of the evil Genii, which are curses, were upon liim." 

[iSoi.] 



-Eastern Tale. 



This ballad was written at the request of Mr. Lewis, to be inserted in his Tales of Wonder.^ 
It is the third in a series of four ballads, on the subject of Elementary Spirits. The story is, 
however, partly historical : for it is recorded, that during the struggles of the Latin kingdom oi 
Jerusalem, a Knight-Templar, called Saint Alban, deserted to the Saracens, and defeated the 
Christians in many combats, till he was finally routed and slain, in a conflict with King Baldwin 
under the walls of Jerusalem. 



Bold knights and fair dames, to my harp 

give an ear, 
Of love, and of war, and of wonder to hear. 
And you haply may sigh, in the midst of 

your glee. 
At the tale of Count Albert, and fair 

Rosalie. 



O see you that castle, so strong and so 

high.? 
And see you that lady, the tear in her eye ">. 
And see you that palmer, from Palestine's 

land. 
The shell on his hat, and the staff in his 

hand ? — 



* Published in iSoi. 




C— 1- 




362 



SCOTT'S I'OETICAL WORKS. 



" Now palmer, gray palmer, O tell unto me, 
What news bring you home from the Holy 

Countrie ? 
And how goes the warfare by Galilee's 

strand ? 
And how fare our nobles, the flower of the 

land ? "— 



'^ O we',1 goes the warfare by Galilee's 
wave, 



Small thought had Count Albert on fair 
Rosalie, 

Small thought on his faith, or his knight- 
hood, had he : 

A heathenish damsel his light heart had 



won. 

The Soldan's fair daughter of Mount Leba- 
non. 

' O Christian, brave Christian, my love 

T- /^--i 1 .1 M 11 IT, 1 I wouldst thou be, 

Vox Gilead, and Nablous, and Kamah we ^p, ,, • <. ii j t i 1 <. 

, ' ' i hree tlimgs must thou do ere 1 hearken to 




have ; 

And well fare our nobles by Mount Leba- 
non, 

For the Heathen have lost, and the Chris- 
tians have won." 

A fair chain of gold 'mid her ringlets there 

hung ; 
O'er the palmer's gray locks the fair chain 

has she flung : 
" O palmer, gray palmer, this chain be thy 

fee. 
For the news thou hast brought from the 

Holy Countrie. 

" And, palmer, good palmer, by Galilee's 
wave, 

O saw ye Count Albert, the gentle and 
brave t 

When the Crescent went back, and the Red- 
cross rush'd on, 

O saw ye him foremost on Mount Leba- 
non ? '' — 

" O lady, fair lady, the tree green 't 

grows ; 
O lady, fair lady, tlie stream pure it flows ; 
Your castle stands strong, and your hopes 

soar on high ; 
But, lady, fair lady, all blossoms to die. 

" The green boughs they wither, the thun- 
derbolt falls. 

It leaves of your castle but levin-scorch'd 
walls ; 

The pure stream runs muddy ; the gay hope 
is gone ; 

Count Albert is prisoner on Mount Leba- 
non." 

O she's ta'en a horse, should be fleet at her 

speed ; 
And she's ta'en a sword, should be sharp at 

her need ; 
And she has ta'en shipping for Palestine's 

land, 
To ransom Count Albert from Soldanrie's 

hand. 



thee ; 
Our laws and our worship on thee shalt thou 

take , 
And this thou shalt first do for Zulema's sake, 

" And, next, in the cavern, where burns 

evermore 
The mystical flame which the Curdmans 

adore. 
Alone, and in silence, three nights shalt 

thou wake , 
And this thou shalt next do for Zulema's 

sake. 

" And, last, thou shalt aid us with counsel 

and hand. 
To drive the Frank robber from Palestine's 

land , 
For my lord and my love then Count .Albert 

I'll take, 
When all this is accomplish'd for Zulema's 

sake " 

He has thrown by his helmet, and cross- 
handled sword. 

Renouncing his knighthood, denying his 
Lord ; 

He has ta'en the green caftan, and turban 
put on, 

For the love of the maiden of fair Lebanon. 

And in the dread cavern, deep deep under 

ground. 
Which fifty steel gates and steel portals 

surround, 
He has watch'd until daybreak, but sight 

saw he none, 
Save the flanii burning bright on its altar of 

stone. 

Amazed was the Princess, the Soldan 

amazed. 
Sore murmur'd the priests as on Albert they 

gazed ; 
They search'd all his garments, and, under 

his weeds. 
They found, and took from him, his rosary 

beads. 





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BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN. 363 






Again in the cavern, deep deep under 


I ween the itout heart of Count Albert was 




ground, 


tame, 






He watch'd the lone night, while the winds 


When he saw in his terrors the Monarch of 






whistled round , 


Flame. | 






Far off was their murmur, it came not more 








nigh, 


In his hand a broacf falchion bhie-glimmer'd 






The flame burn'd unmoved, and nought 


through smoke. 






else did he spy 


And Mount Lebanon shook as the monarch 
he spoke : 






Loud murmur'd the priests, and amazed 


■' With this brand shalt thou conquer, thus 






was the King, 


long, and no more, 






While many dark spells of their witchcraft 


Till thou bend to the Cross, and the Virgin 






they sing ; 


adore." 






They search'd Albert's body, and, lo ! on his 








breast 


The cloud-shrouded Arm gives the weapon; 






Was the sign of the Cross, by his father im- 


and see ! 






press'd. 


The recreant receives the charm'd gift on 
his knee ; 






The priests they erase it with care and with 


The thunders growl distant, and faint gleam 






pam, 


the fires. 






And the recreant return'd to tiie cavern 


As, borne on the whirlwind, the phantom 






again , 


retires. 






But, as he descended, a whisper there 








fell,^ 


Count Albert has arm'd him the Paynim 






It was his good angel, who bade him fare- 


among, 






well ! 


Though his heart it was false, yet his arm 
it was strong ; 






Eligh bristled his hair, his heart flutter'd 


And the Red-Cross wax'd faint, and the 






and beat, 


Crescent came on. 






And lie tiirn'd him five steps, half resolved 


From the day he commanded on Mount 






to retreat ; 


Lebanon. 






But his heart it was harden'd, his purpose 








was gone, 


From Lebanon's Forests to Galilee's 






When he thought of the Maiden of fair Le- 


wave; 






banon, 


The sands of Samaar drank the blood ot the 
brave ; 






Scarce pass'd he the archway, the thres- 


Till the Knights of the Temple and Knights 






hold scarce trode, 


of Saint John, 






When the winds from the four points of 


With Salem's King Baldwin, against him 






heaven were abroad, 


came on. 






They made each steel portal to rattle and 
ring. 


The war-cymbals clatter'd, the trumpets i? 






And, borne on the blast, came the dread 


plied, 






Fire-K.in^o 


The lances were couch'd, and they closed on 








each side; 






Fall sore rock'd the cavern whene'er he 


And horsemen and horses Count Albert 






drew nigh, 
The fire on the altar blazed bickering and 


o'erthrew, 
Till he pierced the thick tumult King Bald- 






high ; 


win unto. 






In volcanic explosions the mountains pro- 


Against the charm'd blade which Count Al- 






claim 


bert did wield, 






The dreadful approach of the Monarch of 


The fence had been vain of the King's Red- 






f Flame. 


cross shield ; j. 


^ 




Unmeasured in height, undistinguish'd in 


But a Page thrust him forward the monarch 






form, 


before. 






His breath it was lightning, his voice it was 


And cleft the proud turban the renegade 






storm , 


wore. 






It ^' 


. 




\J7 ^ ^ . "= K 


4 


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1 




3^4 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



So fell was the dint, that Count Albert 
stoop'd low 

Before the cross'd shield, to his steel saddle- 
bow , 

And scarce had lie bent to the Red-cross 
his head, — 

" Benne Grace, Notre Dame ' " he unwit- 
tingly said. 

Sore sighVl the charm'd sword, for its virtue 
was o'er, 

It sprung from his grasp, and was never 
seen more ; 

But true men have said, that the lightning's 
red-wing 

Did waft back the branch to the dread Fire- 
King, 

He clench'd his set teeth, and his gaunt- 
leted hand ; 

He stretch'd, with one buffet, that Page on 
the strand ; 

As back from the stripling the broken 
casque roll'd, 

You might see the blue eyes, and the ring- 
lets of gold. 

Short time had Count Albert in horror to 
stare 

On those death-swimming eyeballs and blood- 
clotted hair ; 

For down came the Templars, like Cedron 
in flood, 

And dyed their long lances in Saracen blood. 



The Saracens, Ci'rdmans, and Ishmaelites 

yield 
To the scallop, the saltier, and crossleted 

shield ; 
And the eagles were gorged with the infidel 

dead. 
From Bethsaida's fountains to Naphthali's 

head. 

The Battle is over on Bethsaida's plain. — 

Oh, who is yon Paynim lies stretch'd 'mid 
the slam .' 

And who is yon Page lying cold at his 
knee ? 

Oh, who but Count Albert and fair Rosa- 
he I— 

The Lady was buried in Salem's bless'd 
bound. 

The Count he was left to the vulture and 
hound : 

Her soul to high mercy Our Lady did 
bring ; 

His went on the blast to the dread Fire- 
King. 

Yet many a minstrel, in harping, can 
tell, 

How the Red-cross it conquer'd, the Cres- 
cent it fell • 

And lords and gay ladies have sigh'd, 'mid 
their glee, 

At the tale of Count Albert and fair Rosa- 
He. 



FREDERICK AND ALICE 

[1801.] 

This tale is imitated rather than translated, from a fragment introduced in Goethe's " Claudina 
von Villa Bella," where it is sung by a member of a gang of banditti, to engage the attention of 
the family, while his companions break into the castle. It owes any little merit it may possess 
to my friend Mr. Lewis, to whom it was sent in an extremely rude state ; and who, after some 
material improvements, published it in his Tales of li'otider. 

Mark her breast's convulsive throbs 



Frederick leaves the land of France, 
Homeward hastes his steps to measure. 

Careless casts the parting glance 
On the scene of former pleasure 

Joying in his prancing steed, 

Keen to prove his untried blade, 
Hope's gay dreams the soldier lead 

Over mountain, moor, and glade 
Helpless, ruin'd, left forlorn. 

Lovely Alice wept alone ; 
Mourn'd o'er love's fond contract torn, 

Hope, and peace, and honor flown. 



See, the tear of anguish flows ! — 
Mingling soon with bursting sobs, 
Loud the laugh of frenzy rose. 

Wild she cursed, and wild she pray'd ; 

Seven long days and nights are o'er; 
Death and pity brought his aid. 

As the village bell struck four. 
Far from her, and far from France, 

Faithless Frederick onward rides : 
Marking, blithe, the morning's glancf 

Mantling o'er the mountain's sides. 









BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN. 



365 



Heard ye not the boding sound, 
As the tongue of yonder tower, 

Slowly, to the liills around, 

Told the fourth, the fated hour ? 

Starts the steed, and snuffs the air, 
Yet no cause of dread appears ; 

Bristles high the rider's hair, 
Struck with strange mysterious fears. 

D-sperate as his terrors rise, 
in the steed the spur he hides; 

From himself in vain he flies ; 
Anxious, restless, on he rides. 

Seven long days, and seven long nights, 
Wild he wander'd, woe the while ! 

Ceaseless care, and causeless fright, 
Urge his footsteps many a mile. 

Dark the seventh sad night descends ; 

Rivers swell, and rain-streams pour 
While the deafening thunder lends 

All the terrors of its roar. 

Weary, wet, and spent with toil, 

Where his head shall Frederick hide? 

Where, but in yon ruin'd aisle, 
By the lightning's flash descried. 

To the portal, dank and low. 

Fast his steed the wanderer bound: 

Down a ruin'd staircase slow. 
Next his darkling way he wound. 

Long drear vaults before him lie 1 

Glimmering lights are seen to glide !— 

" Blessed Mary, hear my cry ! 
Deign a sinner's steps to guide 1 " 



Often lost their quivering beam, 
Still the lights move slow before, 

Till they rest their gliastly gleam 
Right against an iron door. 

Thundering voices from within, 
Mix'd with peals of laughter, rose ; 

As they fell, a solenm strain 
Lent its wild and wondrous close ! 

'Midst the din, he seem'd to hear 

Voice of friends, by death removed ;- 

Well he knew that solemn air, 
'Twas the lay that Alice loved. — 

Hark ! for now a solemn knell, 

Four times on the still night broke; 

Fo-iir times, at its deaden'd swell, 
Echoes from the ruins spoke. 

As the lengthen'd clangors die, 

Slowly opes the iron door ! 
Straight a banquet met his eye, 

But a funeral's form it wore ! 

Coffins for the seats extend ; 

All with black the board was spread ; 
Girt by parent, brother, friend. 

Long since numbered with the dead 1 

Alice, in her grave-clothes bound. 
Ghastly smiling, points a seat ; 

All arose, with thundering sound ; 
All the expected stranger greet. 

High their meagre arms they wave. 
Wild their notes of welcome swell ; 

•• Welcome, traitor, to the grave ! 
Perjured, bid the light farewell 1 " 



THE BATTLE OF SEMPACH.* 

[1S18.] 

These verses are a literal translation of an ancient Swiss ballad upon the battle of Sempach 
fought 9th July, 1386, being the victoiy by which the Swiss cantons established their independ- 
ence : the author, Albert Tchudi, denominated the Souter, from his profession of a shoemaker. 
He was a citizen of Lucerne, esteemed highly among his countrymen, both for his powers as a 
Meister-Singer, or minstrel, and his courage as a soldier. 

The circurnstance of their being written by a poet returning from the well-fought field he 
describes, and in which liis country's fortune was secured, may confer on Tchudi's verses an 
interest which they are not entitled to claim from their poetical merit. But ballad poetry, the 
more literally it is translated, the more it loses its simplicity, without acquiring either grace or 
strength; and therefore, some of tile faults of the verses must be imputed to the translator's 
feeling it a duty to keep as closely as possible to his original. The various puns, rude attempts 
at pleasantry, and disproportioned episodes must be set down to Tchudi's account, or to the 
taste of his age. 

The military antiquary will derive some amusement from the minute particulars which the 
martial poet has recorded. The mode in which the Austrian men-at-arms received the diarge 

* First published in Blackwood, Feb., 1818. 



'W 




366 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



of the Swiss, was by forming a phalanx, which they defended with their long lances. The s;allant 
Winkelreid, who sr.crificed his own life by rushing among the spears, clasping in his arms as 
many as he could grasp, and thus opening a gap in those iron battalions, is celebrated in Swiss 
history. When fairly mingled together, the unwieldy length of their weapons, and cumbrous, 
weight of their defensive armor, rendered the Austrian men-at-arms a very unequal match for 
the light-armed mountaineers. The victories obtained by the Swiss over the German chivalry, 
hitherto deemed as formidable on foot as on horseback, led to important changes in the art of 
war. The poet describes the Austrian knights and squires as cutting the peaks from their boots 
ere they could act upon foot, in allusion to an inconvenient piece of foppery, often mentioned 
in the Middle Ages. Leopold III., Archduke of Austria, called "the handsome man-at-arms," 
was slain in the battle of Sempach, with the flower of his chivalry. 



'TwAS when among our linden-trees 
The bees had housed in swarms, 

(And gray-hair'd peasants say that these 
Betoken foreign arms,) 

Then look'd we down to Willisow, 

The land was all in flame ; 
We knew the Archduke Leopold 

With all his army came. 

The Austrian nobles made their vow, 

So hot their heart and bold, 
" On Switzer carles we'll trample now, 

And slay both young and old."' 
With clarion loud, and banner proud, 

From Zurich on the lake, 
In martial pomp and fair array, 

Their onward march they make. 

" Now list, ye lowland nobles all — 
Ye seek the mountain strand, 

Nor wot ye what shall be your lot 
In such a dangerous land. 

" I rede ye, shrive ye of your sins. 

Before ye farther go , 
A skirmish in Helvetian hills 

May send your souls to woe." — 
" But where now shall we find a priest 

Our shrift that he may hear ? " 
" The Switzer priest * has ta'en the field. 

He deals a penance drear. 
" Right heavily upon your head 

He'll lay his hand of steel ; 
And with his trusty partisan 

Your absolution deal."— 
Twas on a Monday morning then. 

The corn was steep'd in dew. 
And merry maids had sickles ta'en, 

When the host to Sempach drew. 
The stalwart men of fair Lucerne 

Together have they join'd ; 
The pith and core of manhood stern, 

Was none cast looks behind. 



* All the Swiss priests able to bear arms 
Eought in tliis strife for their native land. 



<:-+- 



It was the Lord of Hare-castle, 

And to the Duke he said, 
" Yon little band of brethren true 

Will meet us undismay'd."^ 

" O Hare-castle, thou heart of hare ! " 

Fierce Oxenstern replied. 
" Shalt see then how the game will fare," 

The taunted knight replied. 

There was lacing then of helmets bright, 
■ And closing ranks amain ; 
The peaks they hew'd from their boot 
points 
Might well-nigh load a wain, f 

And thus they to each other said, 

" Yon handful down to hew 
Will be no boastful tale to tell, 

The peasants are so few." 

The gallant Swiss Confederates there 

They pray'd to God aloud, 
And he display'd his rainbow fair 

Against a swarthy cloud 

Then heart and pulse throbb'd more and 
more 

With courage firm and high. 
And down the good Confederates bore 

On the Austrian chivalry. 
The Austrian lion 'gan to growl, 

And toss his mane and tail ; 
And ball, and shaft, and crossbow bolt. 

Went whistling forth like hail. 
Lance, pike, and halbert mingled there, 

The game was nothing sweet ; 
The boughs of many a stately tree 

Lay shivcr'd at their feet 

The Austrian men-at-arms stood fast, 

So close their spears they laid ; 
It chafed the gallant Winkelreid, 

Who to his comrades said — 

t The boots of this period had long points at 
the toes ; so long that in the time of our Richard 
TI they were cliained up to the knees Of 
course, they crreatly impeded the wearer's 
movements on foot 





BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN. 



367 



'1 have a virtuous wife at home, 

A wife and infant son ; 
I leave them to my country's care, — 

This field shall soon be won. 

''These nobles lay their spears right thick, 

And keep full firm array, 
Vet shall my charge tiieir order break, 

And make my brethren way." 

He rush'd against the Austrian band, 

In desperate career, 
And with his body, breast, and hand, 

Bore down each hostile spear. 

Four lances splinter'd on his crest, 

Six shiver'd in his side ; 
Still on the serried files he press'd^ 

He broke their ranks, and died. 

This patriot's self-devoted deed 

First tamed the Lion's mood, 
And the four forest cantons freed 

From thraldom by his blood. 

Right where his charge had made a lane 

His valiant comrades burst, 
With sword, and axe, and partisan, 

And hack, and stab, and thrust. 

The daunted Lion 'gan to whine. 

And granted ground amain, 
The Mountain Bull * he bent his brows, 

And gored his sides again. 

Then lost was banner, spear, and shield, 

At Sempach in the flight. 
The cloister vaults at Konig's-field 

Hold many an Austrian knight. 

It was the Archduke Leopold, 

So lordly would he ride. 
But he came against the Switzer churls, 

And they slew him in his pride. 

The heifer said unto the bull, 

" And shall I not complain ? 
There came a foreign nobleman. 

To milk me on the plain. 

•' One thrust of thine outrageous horn 

Has gall'd the knight so sore, 
That to the churchyard he is borne 

To range our glens no more." 



An Austrian noble left the stour. 
And fast the flight 'gan take : 

And he arrived in luckless hour 
At Sempach on the lake. 

He and his squire a fisher call'd, 
(His name was Hans Von Rot,} 

" For love, or meed, or charity. 
Receive us in thy boat ! " 

Their anxious call the fisher heard, 

And, glad the meed to win. 
His shallop to the shore he steer' d. 

And took tht flyers in. 

And while against the tide and wind 

Hans stoutly rowed his way. 
The noble to his follower sign'd 

He should the boatman slay. 

The fisher's back was to them turn'd, 

The squire his dagger drew, 
Hans saw his shadow in the lake. 

The boat he overthrew. 

He 'whelm'd the boat, and as they strove, 
He stunn'd them with hir. oar, 

" Now, drink ye deep, my gentle sirs. 
You'll ne'er stab boatman more, 

" Two gilded fishes in the lake 

This morning have I caught. 
Their silver scales may much avail. 

Their carrion flesh is naught." 

It was a messenger of woe 

Has sought the Austrian land : 

" Ah 1 gracious lady, evil news I 
My lord lies on the strand. 

" At Sempach, on the battle-field, 
His bloody corpse lies there." — 

" Ah, gracious God ! " the lady cried, 
" What tidings of despair I" 

Now would you know the minstrel wighf 

Who sings of strife so stern, 
Albert the Souter is he hight, 

A burgher of Lucerne. 

A merry man was he, I wot, 

The night he made the lay. 
Returning from the bloody Gpot, 

Where God had judged the day. 



The Urus, or wild-bull, gave name to the Canton of Uru 





1 


J 


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<:__j •> c ^_5 f 


^ 




^ ^ 




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V 




X 






368 SCO TT'S POE TIC A L WORKS. 






THE NOBLE MORINGER * 




[ -JIU 
1 AN ANCIENT BALLAD. 1 

hSio.l 






I. 

0, WILL you hear a knightly tale of old 

Bohemian day, 
It was the noble Morinjer in wedlock bed 

he lay ; 
He halsed and kiss'd his dearest dame, that 

was as sweet as May, 
And said, " Now, lady of my heart, attend 

the words I say. 


VI. 

It was the noble Moringer from bed he made 

him boune. 
And met him there his Chamberlain, with 

ewer and with gown : 
He flung his mantle on his back, Hwas 

furr'd with miniver, 
He dipp'd his hand in water cold and 

bathed his forehead fair. 

VII. 

" Now hear," he said, " Sir Chamberlain, 

true vassal art thou mine, 
And such the trust that I repose in that 

proved worth of thine, 
For seven years shalt rhou rule my towers, 

and lead my vassal train, 
.And pledge thee for my lady's faith till I 

return again." 






" 'Ti's I have vow'd a pilgrimage unto a dis- 
tant shrine, 

And 1 must seek Saint Thomas-land, and 
leave the land that's mine ; 

Here shalt thou dwell the while in state, 
so thou wilt pledge thy fay, 

That thou for my return wilt wait seven 
twelvemonths and a day." 






III. 


VIII, 






Then out and spoke that Lady bright, sore 

troubled in her cheer, 
" Now tell me true, thou noble knight, what 

order takest thou here ; 
And who shall lead thy vassal band, and 

hold thy lordly sway, 
And be thy lady's guardian true when thou 

art far away ? " 


The Chamberlain was blunt and true, and 

sturdily said he, 
" Abide, my lord, and rule your own, and 

take this rede from me : 
That woman's faith's a brittle trust — Seven 

twelvemonths didst thou say ? 
I'll pledge me for no lady's truth beyond 

the seventh fair day.'' 






IV. 


IX. 






Out spoke the noble Moringer, " Of that 

have thou no care, 
There's many a valiant gentleman of me 

holds living fair ; 
The trustiest shall rule my land, my vassals 

and my state. 
And be a guardian tried and true to thee, 

my lovely mate. 


The noble Baron turn'd him round, his 

heart was full of care. 
His gallant Esquire stood him nigh, he was 

Marstetten's heir. 
To whom lie spoke right anxiously, " Thou 

trusty squire to me. 
Wilt thou receive this weighty trust when I 

am o'er the sea ? 

V 






■ p 


■'As Christian-man, I needs must keep the 

vow which I have pliglit, 
When I am far in foreign land, remember 

thy true knight ; 
And cease, my dearest dame, to grieve, for 

vain were sorrow now. 
But grant thy Moringer his leave, since God 

hath heard his vow." 


'■ To watch and ward my castle strong, a 

to protect my land. 
And to the hunting or the host to lead r 

vassal band ; 
And pledge thee for my lady's faith 

seven long years are gone, 
And guard her as Our Lady dear vv 
1 guarded by Saint John." 


nd 
ny 
ill 
as 




* Published in the Edinburgh Annual Register, 1819. 




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1 



BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN. 



569 



Marstetten's heir was kind and true, but 
fiery, hot, and young, 

And readily lie answer made with too pre- 
sumptuous tongue ; 

" My noble lord, cast care away, and on 
your journey wend. 

And trust this charge to me until your pil- 
grimage have end. 

XII. 

" Rely upon my plighted faith, which shall 
be truly tried, 

To guard your lands, and ward your 
towers, and with your vassals ride ; 

And for your lovely Lady's faith, so virtu- 
ous and so dear, 

I'll gage my head it knows no change, be 
absent thirty year." 

XIII. 

The noble Moringer took cheer when thus 
he heard him speak, 

And doubt forsook his troubled brow, and 
sorrow left his cheek ; 

A long adieu he bids to all — hoists top- 
sails, and away. 

And wanders in Saint Thomas-land seven 
twelvemonths and a day. 

XIV. 

It was the noble Moringer within an 

orchard slept, 
'When on the Baron's slumbering sense a 

boding vision crept ; 
And whisper'd in his ear a voice, " 'Tis 

time, Sir Knight, to wake. 
Thy lady and thy heritage another master 

take. 

XV. 

" Thy tower another banner knows, thy 
steeds another rein. 

And stoop them to another's will thy gal- 
lant vassal train ; 

And she, the Lady of thy love, so faithful 
once and fair, 

This night within thy father's hall she weds 
Marstetten's heir." 

XVI. 

It is the noble Moringer starts up and 

tears his beard, 
"O would that I had ne'er been born! 

what tidings have I heard ? 
To lose my lordship and my lands the less 

would be my care. 
But, God ! that e'er a squire untrue should 

wed my Lady fair. 



XVII. 

' O good Saint Thomas, hear," he pray'd, 

" my patron Saint art thou, 
A traitor robs me of my land even while I 

pay my vow ! 
My wife he brings to infamy that was so 

pure of name, 
And I am far in foreign land, and must 

endure the shame." 

XVIII. 

It was the good Saint Thomas, then, who 

heard his pilgrim's prayer, 
And sent a sleep so deep and dead that it 

o'erpower'd his care ; 
He waked in fair Bohemian land out- 

stretch'd beside a rill. 
High on the right a castle stood, low on 

the left a mill. 

XIX. 

The Moringer he started up as one from 

spell unbound. 
And dizzy with surprise and joy gazed 

wildly all around ; 
" I know my fathers' ancient towers, the 

mill, the stream I know, 
Now blessed be my patron Saint who 

cheer'd his pilgrim's woe ! " 

XX. 

He leant upon his pilgrim staff, and to tlie 
mill he drew. 

So alter'd was his goodly form that none 
their master knew ; 

The Baron to the miller said, " Good 
friend, for charity, 

Tell a poor palmer in your land what tid- 
ings may there be ? " 

XXI. 

The miller answer'd him again, " He 

knew of little news, 
Save that the Lady of the land did a new 

bridegroom choose ; 
Her husband died in distant land, such is 

the constant word. 
His death sits heavy on our souls, he was 

a worthy Lord. 

XXII. 

" Of him I held the little mill which wins 

me living free, 
God rest the Baron in his grave, he still 

was kind to me ! 
And when Saint Martin's tide comes round, 

and millers take their toll, 
The priest that prays for Moringer shall 

have both cope and stole." 



JK 




^Q5x 



370 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



XXIII. 

It was the noble Moringer to climb the 

hill began; 
And %\.ooA before the bolted gate a woe 

and weary man ; 
" Now help me, every saint in heaven that 

can compassion take, 
To gain the entrance of my hall this woeful 

match to break." 

XXIV. 

His very knock it sounded sad, his call 

was sad and slow, 
For heart and head, and voice and hand, 

were heavy all with woe ; 
And to the warder thus he spoke : " Friend, 

to thy Lady say, 
A pilgrim from Saint Thomas-land craves 

harbor for a day. 

XXV. 

" I've wander'd many a weary step, my 
strength is well-nigh done. 

And if she turn me from her gate I'll see 
no morrow's sun ; 

I pray, for sweet Saint Thomas' sake, a 
pilgrim's bed and dole. 

And for the sake of Moringer' s, her once- 
loved husband's soul." 

XXVI. 

It was the stalwart warder then he came 

his dame before, — 
" A pilgrim, worn and travel-toil' d, stands 

at the castle-door ; 
And prays, for sweet Saint Thomas' sake, 

for harbor and for dole. 
And for the sake of Moringer thy noble 

hustond's soul." 

XXVII. 

The Lady's gentle heart was moved, " Do 

up the gate," she said, 
'"' And bid the wanderer welcome be to 

banquet and to bed ; 
And since he names my husband's name, 

so that he lists to stay, 
These towers shall be his harborage a 

twelvemonth and a day." 

XXVIII. 

It was the stalwart warder then undid the 

portal broad. 
It was the noble Moringer that o'er the 

threshold strode : 
" And have thou thanks, kind Heaven," 

he said, " though from a man of sin, 
That the true lord stands here once more 

his castie-gate within." 




XXIX. 

Then up the halls paced Moringer, his 

step was sad and slow ; 
It sat full heavy on his heart, none secm'd 

their Lord to know ; 
He sat him on a lowly bench, oppress'd 

with woe and wrong. 
Short space he sat, but ne'er to him 

seem'd little space so long. 

XXX. 

Now spent was day, and feasting o'er, and 

come was evening hour. 
The time was nigh when new-made brides 

retire to nuptial bower ; 
" Our castle's wont," a brides-man said, 

" hath been both firm and long. 
No guest to harbor in our halls till he 

shall chant a song." 

XXXI. 

Then spoke the youthful bridegroom there 

as he sat by the bride, 
" My merry minstrel folk," quoth he, " lay 

shalm and harp aside ; 
Our pilgrim guest must sing a lay, the 

castle's rule to hold. 
And well his guerdon will 1 pay with 

garment and with gold.'' — 

XXXII. 

" Chill flows the lay of frozen age," 'twas 

thus the pilgrim sung, 
" Nor golden meed nor garment gay 

unlocks his heavy tongue ; 
Once did I sit, thou bridegroom gay, at 

board as rich as thine. 
And by side as fair a bride with all her 

charms was mine. 

XXXIII. 

" But time traced furrows on my face 

and I grew silver-hair'd. 
For locks of brown, and cheeks of youth, 

she left this brow and beard> 
Once rich, but now a palmer poor, I tread 

life's latest stage, 
And mingle with your bridal mirth the lay 

of frozen age." 

XXXIV. 

It was the noble Lady there this woeful lay 

that hears. 
And for the aged pilgrim's grief her eye 

was dimm'd with tears ; 
She bade her gallant cupbearer a golden 

beaker take. 
And bear it to the palmer poor to quaff it 

for her sake. 



HALLADS FROM THE GERMAN. 



.371 



XXXV. 

It was the noble Moringer that dropp'd 

amid the wine 
A bridal ring of burning gold so costly and 

so fine : 
Now listen, gentles, to my song, it tells you 

but the sooth, 
'Twas with that very ring of gold he 

pledged his bridal truth. 

XXXVI. 

Then to the cupbearer he said, " Do me one 

kindly deed. 
And should my better days return, full rich 

shall be thy meed ; 
Bear back the golden cup again to yonder 

bride so gay. 
And crave her of her courtesy to pledge 

the palmer gray." 

xxxvii. 
The cupbearer was courtly bred, nor was 

the boon denied, 
The golden cup he took again, and bore it to 

the bride ; 
" Lady," he said, " your reverend guest sends 

this, and bids me pray. 
That, in thy noble courtesy, thou pledge the 

palmer gray." 

xxxviii. 

The ring hath caught the Lady's eye, she 

views it close and near, 
Then might you hear her shriek aloud, 

" The Moringer is here 1 
Then might you see her start from seat, 

while tears in torrents fell, 
But whether 'twas for joy or woe, the ladies 

best can tell. 

XXXIX. 

But loud she utter'd thanks to Heaven, and 

every saintly power, 
That had return'd the Moringer before the 

midnight hour ; 



And loud she utter'd vow on vow, that 

never was there bride. 
That had like her preserved her troth, 01 

been so sorelv tried. 



" Yes, here I claun the praise," she said. " to 

constant matrons due, 
Who keep the troth that they have plight, 

so steadfastly and true ; 
For count the term howe'er you will, se 

that you count aright, « 

Seven twelve-montlis and a day are out, 

when bells toll twelve to-night." 



It was Marstetten then rose up, his falchion 

there he drew. 
He kneel'd before the Moringer, and down 

his weapon threw ; 
" My oath and knightly faith are broke," 

these were the words he said, 
" Then take, my liege, thy vassal's sword, 

and take chy vassal's head." 



The noble Moringer he smiled, and then 

aloud did say, 
" He gathers wisdom that hath roam'd 

seven twelve-months and a day ; 
My daughter now hath fifteen years, fame 

speaks her sweet and fair, 
1 give her for the bride you lose, and name 

her for my heir. 



" The young bridegroom hath youthful 

bride, the old bridegroom the old. 
Whose faith was kept till term and tide so 

punctually were told ; 
But blessings on the warder kind that oped 

my castle gate, 
For had I come at morrow tide, I came a 

day too late," 



THE ERL-KING. 



FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE. 



(The Erl-King is a goblin that haunts the Black Forest in Thuringia.— To be read by a candle 
particularly long in the snuff.) 



O, WHO rides by night thro' the woodland 

so wild .' 
U is the fond father embracing his 

child; 



And close the boy nestles within his loved 

arm, 
To hold himself fast, and to keep himseli 

warm. 



r^ 



o72 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



" O father, see yonder ! see yonder ! " he 

says ; 
" My boy,, upon what dost thou fearfully 

gaze ! " — ■ 
" O, 'tis the Erl-King with liis crown and 

his shroud." 
■' No, my son, it is but a dark wreath of the 

cloud." 

(THE ERL-KING SPEAKS.) 

" C come and go with me, thou loveliest 
child ; 

I?y many a gay sport shall thy time be be- 
guiled ; 

M-y mother keeps for tliee full many a fair 
toy, 

And many a fine flower shall she pluck for 
my boy." 

'■• father, my father, and did you not 

hear 
The Erl-King whisper so low in my ear ? " — 
" Be still, my heart's darling — my child, be 

at ease ; 
It was but the wild blast as it sung tliro' the 

wees." 

ERL-KING. 

" O wilt thou go with me, thou loveliest 

boy.? 
My daughter shall tend thee with care and 

with joy ; 



She shall bear thee so lightly thro' wet and 

thro' wild, 
And press thee, and kiss thee, and sing to 

my child." 

'• O father, my father, and saw you not 

plain. 
The Erl-King's pale daughter glide past 

thro' the rain 'i " — 
•' O yes, my loved treasure, I knew it full 

soon ; 
It was the gray willow that danced to the 

moon." 

ERL-KING. 

" O come and go with me, no longer 

^ delay, 
Or else, silly child, I will drag thee 

away." — 
" O father ! O father ! now, now keep your 

hold, 
The Erl-King has seized me — his grasp is so 

cold!"— 

Sore trembled the father ; he spurr'd thro' 

the wild, 
Clasping close to his bosom his shuddering 

child ; 
He reaches his dwellmg in doubt and in 

dread, 
But, clasp'd to his bosom, the infant was 

dead ' " 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



JUVENILE LINES, 

FROM VIRGIL. 
1782. — .EtAT. II. 



" Scott's autobiography tells us that his trans- 
lations in verse from Horace and Virgil were 
often approved by Dr. Adams [Rector of the 
High School, Edinburgh]. One of these little 
pieces, written in a weak boyish scrawl, within 
pencilled marks still visible, had been carefully 
preserved by his mother ; it was found folded up 
in a cover, inscribed by the old lady, — "/T/j/ 
Walter's first titles, 1782." — Lockhart, Life 
of Scott, vol. i. p. i2g. 

In awful ruins yEtna thunders nigh. 

And sends in pitchy whirhvinds to the sky 



Black clouds of smoke, which still as they 

aspire, 
From their dark sides there bursts the glow- 

ing fire ; 
At other times huge halls of fire are toss'd, 
That lick the stars, and in the smoke are 

lost! 
.Sometimes the mount, with vast convulsions 

torn, 
Emits huge rocks, which instantly are borne 
With loud explosions to the starry skies. 
The stones made liquid as the huge mass 

flies, 
Then back aiain with greater weight recoils, 
While i^^tna thundering from the bottom 

boils. 



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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



373 



ON A THUNDER STORM 

1783. — ^T. 12. 

" In Scott's Introduction to the Lay, he 
alludes to an original effusion of these ' school- 
boy days,' prompted by a thunder-storm, which 
he says ' was much approved of, until a malevo- 
lent critic sprung up in the shape of an apothe- 
cary's blue-buskined wife,' &c., &c. These 
lines, and another short piece, " On the Setting 
Sun,' were lately found wrapped up in a cover, 
inscribed by Dr. Adams, ' Walter Scott, July, 
'783.'" 
Loud o'er my head though awful thunders 

roll. 
And vivid lightnings flash from pole to pole 
Yet 'tis thy voice, my God, that bids them 

fly, 

Thy arm directs those lightnings through 

the sky. 
Then let the good thy mighty name revere. 
And harden'd sinners thy just vengeance 

fear. 



ON THE SETTING SUN. 

1783. 
Those evening clouds, that setting ray, 
And beauteous tints, serve to display 

Their great Creator's praise ; 
Then let the short-lived thing call'd man, 
Whose life's comprised within a span, 

To him his homage raise. 
We often praise the evening clouds, 

And tints so gay and bold, 
But seldom think upon our God, 

Who tinged these clouds with gold. 



THE VIOLET. 

These lines were first published in the Eng- 
lish Minstrelsy, 1810. They were written in 
1797, on occasion of the poet's disappointment 
in love. — See Life of Scott, vol. i. p. 333. 

The violet in her green-wood bower, 

Where birchen boughs with hazels mingle, 
May boast itself the fairest flower 

In glen, or copse, or forest dingle. 
Though fair h^r gems of azure hue, 

Beneath the dew-drop's weight reclining -, 
I've seen an eye of lovelier hue. 

More sweet through wat'ry lustre shming. 
The summer sun that dew shall dry, 

Ere yet the day be past its morrow ; 
No longer in my false love's eye 

Remain'd the tear of parting sonow. 




TO A LADY. 



WITH FLOWERS FROM A ROMAN WALL, 

Written in 1797, on an excursion from Gills 
land, in Cumberland. See Life, vol. i. p. 365 

Take these flowers which, purple waving, 

On the ruin'd rampart grew. 
Where, the sons of freedom braving, 
Rome's imperial standards flew. 

Warriors from the breach of danger 

Pluck no longer laurels there ; 
They but yield the passing stranger 

Wild-flower wreaths for Beauty's hair. 



WAR-SONG 

OF THE ROYAL EDINBURGH LIGHT 
DRAGOONS. 

1797. 

To horse ! to horse ! the standard 

The bugles sound the call ; 
The Gallic navy stems the seas. 
The voice of battle's on the breeze, 

Arouse ye, one and all ! 

From high Dunedin's towers we come, 

A band of brothers true ; 
Our casques the leopard's spoils surround, 
With Scotland's hardy thistle crown'd ; 

We boast the red and blue.* 

Though tamely couch'd to Gallia's frown 

Dull Holland's tardy train ; 
Their ravish'd toys tho' Romans mourn ; 
Though gallant Switzers vainly spurn. 

And, foaming, gnaw the chain ; 

Oh ! had they mark'd the avenging call 

Their brethren's murder gave. 
Disunion ne'er their ranks had mown, 
Nor patriot valor, desperate grown. 
Sought freedom in the grave ! 

Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head, 

In Freedom's temple born. 
Dress our pale cheek in timid smile 
To hail a master in our isle, 

Or brook a victor's scorn ? 

No ! though destruction o'er the land 

Come pouring as a flood, 
The sun, that sees our falling day, 
Shall mark our sabres' deadly sway. 

And set that night in blood. 



The royal colors. 





374 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



For gold let Gallia's legions fight, 

Or plunder's bloody gain ; 
Unbribed, unbought, our swords we draw, 
To guard our king, to fence our law, 

Nor shall their edge be vain. 

If ever breath of Britisli gale 

Shall fan the tri-color, 
Or footstep of invader rude, 
With rapine foul, and red with blood 

Pollute our happy shore, ^ 

Then farewell home 1 and farewell friendj ! 

Adieu, each tender tie ! 
Resolved, we mingle in the tide. 
Where charging squadrons furious ride. 

To conquer or to die. 

To horse ! to horse ! the sabres gleam ; 

High sounds our bugle-call ; 
Combined by honor's sacred tie, 
Our word is Laws and Liberty ! 

March forward, one and all I 



THE BARD'S INCANTATION. 

WRITTEN UNDER THE THREAT OF IN- 
VASION IN THE AUTUMN OF 1S04. 

The forest of Glenmore is drear, 

It is all of black pine and the dark oak- 
tree ; 
And the midnight wind, to the mountain 
deer, 
Is whistling the forest lullaby ; 
The moon looks through the drifting 

storm. 
But the troubled lake reflects not her form, 
For the waves roll whitening to the land, 
And dash against the shelvy strand. 
There is a voice among the trees. 

That mingles with the groaning oak — 
That mingles with the stormy breeze, 

And the lake-waves dashing against the 
rock ; — 
There is a voice within the wood. 

The voice of the bard in fitful mood , 
His song was louder than the blast. 
As the bard of Glenmore through the forest 
past. 

" Wake ye from your sleep of death, 
Minstrels and bards of other days 1 

For the midnight wind is on the heath, 
And the midnight meteors dimly blaze : 

The Spectre with his Bloody Hand,* 



* The forest of Glenmore is haunted by a 
spirit called Lhamdearg, or Red-hand- 



Is wandering through the wild woodland : 
The owl and the raven are mute for dread, 
And the time is meet to awake the dead ! 
" Souls of the mighty, wake and say. 

To what high strain your harps wire 
strung. 
When Lochlin plow'd her billowy way, 

And on your shores her Norsemen flung > 
Her Norsemen train'd to spoil and blood, 
Skill'd to prepare the raven's food. 
All, by your harpings, doom'd to die 
On bloody Largs and Loncarty.f 
" Mute are ye all ? No murmurs strange 

Upon the midnight breeze sail by ; 
Nor through the pines, with whistling 
change 

Mimic the harp's wild harmony ? 
Mute are ye now ? — Ye ne'er were mute, 
When Murder with his bloody foot. 
And Rapine with his iron hand, 
Were hovering near yon mountain strand. 
" O yet awake the strain to tell. 

By every deed in song enroll'd, 
By every chief who fought or fell, 

For Albion's weal in battle bold • — 
From Coilgach.t first who roll'd his car 
Through the deep ranks of Roman war, 
To him, of veteran memory dear. 
Who victor died on Aboukir. 
" By all their swords, by all their scars, 

By all their names, a mighty spell. 
By all their wounds, by all their war.s. 

Arise, the mighty strain to tell ! 
For fiercer than fierce Hengist's strain, 
More impious than the heathen Dane, 
More grasping than all-grasping Rome, 
Gaul's ravening legions hither come ! "— 
The wind is hush'd, and still the lake — 

.Strange murmurs fill my tingling ears, 
Bristles my hair, my sinews quake. 

At the dread voice of other years — 
" When targets clash'd, and bugles rung, 
And blades round warriors' heads were 

flung, 
The foremost of the band were we, 
And hymn'd the joys of Liberty ! " 



HELVELLYN. 

1S05. 
In the spring of 1S05, a young gentleman 
of talents, and of a most amiable disposition, 

t Where the Norwegian invader of Scotland 
received two bloody defeats. 
X The Galgacus of Tacitus. 



^^ 




MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



375 



perished by losing his way on the mountain 
Helvellyn. His remains were not discovered 
till three months afterwards, when they were 
found guarded by a faithful terrier-bitch, his 
constant attendant dining frequent solitary 
rambles through the wilds of Cumberland and 
Westmoreland. 

I climb'd the dark brow of the mighty 
Helvellyn, 
Lalces and mountains beneath me 
gleam'd misty and wide ; 
All was still, save by fits, when the eagle 
was yelling. 
And starting around me the echoes re- 
■ plied. 
On the right, Striden-edge round the Red- 
tarn was bending. 
And Catchedicam its left verge was de- 
fending. 
One huge nameless rock in the front was 
ascending, 
When I mark'd the sad spot where the 
wanderer had died. 

Dark green was that spot 'mid the brown 
mountain-heather, 
Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay 
stretch'd in decay, 

Like the corpse of an outcast abandon'd 
to weather, 
Till the mountain winds wasted the 
tenantless clay. 

Nor >et quite deserted, though lonely ex- 
tended, 

For, laithful in death, his mute favorite 
attended, 

The much-loved remains of her master de- 
fended. 
And cliased the hill-fox and the raven 
away. 

How long didst thou think that his silence 

was slumber ? 
When the wind waved his garment, how 

oft didst thou start ? 
How many long days and long weeks didst 

thou number. 
Ere he faded before thee, the friend of 

thy heart ? 
And, oh ! was it meet, that— no requiem 

read o'er him — 
No mother to weep, and no friend to de- 
plore him. 
And thou, little guardian, alone stretch'd 

before him — 
Unhonor'd the Pilgrim from life should 

depart ? 



When a Prince to the fate of the Peasant 

has yielded, 
The tapestry waves dark round the dim- 
lighted hall ; 
With scutcheons of silver the coffin is 

shielded, 
And pages stana mute by the canopied 

pall; 
Through the courts, at deep midnight, the 

torches are gleaming ; 
In the proudly arch'd chapel the banners 

are beaming, 
Far adown the long aisle sacred music is 

streaming, [fall. 

Lamenting a Chief of the people should 

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of 

nature, 
To lay down thy head like the meek 

mountain lamb. 
When, wilder'd, he drops from some cliff 

huge in stature. 
And draws his last sob by the side of his 

dam. 
And more stately thy couch by this desert 

lake lying. 
Thy obsequies sung by the gray plovei' 

flying, 
With one faithful friend but to witness thy 

dying, 
In the arms of Helvellyn and Catche- 
dicam. 



THE DYING BARD. 

i3o6. 
Air — Daffydz Gaiigzven. 

The Welsh tradition bears, that a Bard, on 
his death-bed, demanded his harp, and played 
the air to which these verses are adapted ; re- 
questing that it might be performed at his 
funeral. 

I 
DiNAS Emlinn, lament ; for the moment 

is nigh. 
When mute in the woodlands thine echoes 

shall die : 
No more by sweet Teivi Cadwallon shall 

rave. 
And mix his wild notes with the wild dash- 
ing wave. 

II. 

In spring and in autumn thy glories of 

shade 
Unhonor'd shall flourish, unhonor'd shall 

fade ; 





37& 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



For soon shall be lifeless the eye and the 

tongue, 
That view'd them with rapture, with rapture 

that suns;. 



Thy sons, Dinas Emlinn, may march in 

their pride. 
And chase the proud Saxon from Prestatyn's 

side ; 
But where is the iiarp shall give life to their 

name ? 
And where is the bard shall give heroes their 

fame ? 



And oh, Umas Emlinn thy daughters so 

fair. 
Who heave the white bosom, and wave the 

dark hair ; 
What tuneful enthusiast shall worship their 

eye, 
When half of their charms with Cadwalldn 

shall die ? 



Then adieu, silver Teivi ! I quit thy loved 

scene. 
To join the dim choir of the bards who 

have been ; 
With Lewarch, and Meilor, and Merlin the 

Old, 
And sage Taliessin, high harping to hold. 



And adieu, Dinas Emlinn ! still green be 
thy shades, 

Unconquer'd thy warriors, and matchless 
thy maids ! 

And thou, whose faint warblings my weak- 
ness can tell, 

Farewell, my loved Harp, my last treasure, 
farewell ! 



THE NORMAN HORSE-SHOE, 



i3o6. 



AlR- 



■The War-Song of the Men of Gla- 
morgan . 
The Welsh, inhabiting a mountainous country, 
and possessing only an inferior breed of horses, 
were usually unable to encounter the shock of 
the Anglo-Norman cavalry. Occasionally, 
however, they were successful m repelling the 
invaders ; and the following verses are supposed 
to celebrate a defeat of Clare, Earl of Striguil 
and Pembroke, and of Neville, Baron of 



Chepstow, Lords-Marchers of Monmouthshire. 
Rymny is a stream which divides the counties 
of Monmouth and Glamorgan : Caerphili, the 
scene of the supposed battle, is a vale upon its 
banks, dignified by the ruins of a very ancient 
castle. 

I. 
Red glows the forge in Striguil's bounds, 
And hammers din, and anvil sounds, 
And armorers, with iron toil, 
Barb many a steed for battle's broil. 
Foul fall the hand which bends the steel 
Around the courser's thundering heel, 
That e'er shall dint a sable wound 
On fair Glamorgan's velvet ground ! 



From Chepstow's towers, ere dawn of mom, 

Was heard afar the bugle horn ; 

And forth in banded pomp and piide, 

Stout Clare and fiery Neville ride. 

They swore their banners broad should 

gleam. 
In crimson light, on Rymny's stream ; 
They vow'd, Caerphili's sod should feel 
The Norman charger's spurning heel. 

III. 
And sooth they swore — the sun arose, 
And Rymny's wave with crimson glows ! 
For Clare's red banner, floating wide, 
Roll'd down the stream to Severn's tide ! 
And sooth they vow'd — the trampled green 
Show'd where hot Neville's charge had 

been : 
In every sable hoof -tramp stood 
A Norman horseman's curdling blood! 

IV. 

Old Chepstow's brides may curse the toil. 
That arm'd stout Clare for Cambrian broil; 
Their orphans long the art may rue, 
For Neville's war-horse forged the shoe. 
No more the stamp of armed steed 
-Shall dint Glamorgan's velvet mead ; 
Nor trace be there, in early spring. 
Save of the Fairies' emerald ring. 



THE MAID OF TORO. 

1806. 
O, LOW shone the sun on the fair lake ol 
Toro, 
And weak were the whispers that waved 
the dark wood, 
All as a fair maiden, bewilder'd in sorrow. 
Sorely sigh'd to the breezes, and wept tc 
the flood. 



^ 




j£ 




MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



377 



" O saints ! from the mansions of bliss 
lowly bending ; 
Sweet Virgin ! who hearest the suppliant's 
cry, 
Now grant my petition, in anguish ascend- 
ing, 
My Henry restore, or let Eleanor die ! '' 

All distant and faint were the sounds of the 
battle, 
With the breezes they rise, with the 
breezes they fail, 
Till the shout, and the groan, and the con- 
flict's dread rattle. 
And the chase's wild clamor, came loading 
the gale. 
Breathless she gazed on the woodlands so 
dreary ; 
Slowly approaching a warrior was seen ; 
Life's ebbing tide mark'd his footsteps so 
weary, 
Cleft was his helmet, and woe was his 
mien. 

" O save thee, fair maid, for our armies are 
flying! 
O save thee, fair maid, for thy guardian is 
low ! 
Deadly coW on yon heath thy brave Henry 
is lying, 
And fast through the woodland approaches 
the foe." 
Scarce could he falter the tidings of sorrow. 
And scarce could she hear them, benurnb'd 
with despair : 
And when the sun sank on the sweet lake of 
Toro, 
Forever he set to the Brave and the Fair. 



THE PALMER. 

1806. 

*<) OPEN the door, some pity to show, 
Keen blows the northern wind ! 

The glen is white with the drifted snow, 
And the path is hard to find. 

" No outlaw seeks your castle gate. 
From chasing the King's deer, 

Though even an outlaw's wretched state 
Might claim compassion here. 

" A weary Palmer, worn and weak, 

I wander for my sin ; 
O open, for Our Lady's sake ! 

A pilgrim's blessing wini 



" I'll give you pardons from the Pope. 

And reliques from o'er the sea ;- 
Or if for these you will not ope, 

Yet open for charity. 

" The hare is crouching in her form, 

The hart beside the hind ; 
An aged man, amid the storm, 

No shelter can I find. 

" You hear the Ettrick's sullen roar, 
Dark, deep, and strong is he, 

And r must ford the Ettrick o'er 
Unless you pity me. 

" The iron gate is bolted hard, 

At which I knock in vain ; 
The owner's heart is closer barr'd, 

Who hears me thus complain. 

" Farewell, farewell ! and Mary grant, 

When old and frail you be. 
You never may the shelter want, 

That's now denied to me." 
The Ranger on his couch lay warm. 

And heard him plead in vain ; 
But oft amid December's storm. 

He'll hear that voice again : 

For lo, when through the vapors dark, 
Morn shone on Ettrick fair, 

A corpse amid the alders rank. 
The Palmer welter d there. 



THE MAID OF NEIDPATH. 



There is a tradition in Tweeddale, that, when 
Neidpath Castle, near Peebles, was inhabited 
by the Earls of March, a mutMal passion sub- 
sisted between a daughter of that noble family, 
and a son of the Laird of Tushielaw, in Ettrick 
Forest. As the alliance was thought unsuit- 
able by her parents, the young man went 
abroad. During his absence, the lady fell into 
a consumption ; and at length, as the only 
means of saving her life, her father consented 
that her lover should be recalled. On the day 
when he was expected to pass through Peebles, 
on the road to Tushielaw, the young lady, 
though much exhausted, caused herself to be 
carried to the balcony of a house in Peebles, 
belonging to the family, that she might see 
him as he rode past. Her anxiety and eager- 
ness gave such force to her organs, that she is 
said to have distinguished his horse's footsteps 
at an incredible distance. But Tushielaw, un- 
prepared for the change in her appearance, and 
not expecting to see her in that V)lace, rode op 




378 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



without recognizing her, or even slackening his 
pace. The lady was unable to support the 
shock ', and, after a short struggle, died in the 
arms of her attendants. There is an incident 
similar to this ;raditional tale in Count Hamil- 
ton's '■ Fleur d'Kpine." 

O lovers' eyes are sharp to see, 

And lovers' ears in hearing ; 
And love, in life's extremity, 

Can lend an hour of cheering. 
Disease had been in Mary's bower, 

And slow decay from mourning, 
Though now she sits on Neidpath's tower, 

To watch her love's returning. 

All sunk and dim her eyes so bright, 

Her form decay'd by pining. 
Till through her wasted hand, at night, 

You saw the taper shining ; 
By fits, a sultry hectic hue. 

Across her cheek was flying; 
By fits, so ashy pale she grew. 

Her maidens thought her dying. 

Vet keenest powers to see and hear, 

Seem'd in her frame residing ; 
Beiore the watch-dog prick'd his ear, 

She lieard her lover's ridmg ; 
Ere scarce a distant form was kenn'd, 

Site knew, and waved to greet him ; 
And o'er the battlement did bend. 

As on the wing to meet him. 

He came — he pass'd — a heedless gaze, 

As o'er some stranger glancing ; 
Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase, 

Lost in his courser's prancing — 
The castle arch, whose hollow tone 

Returns each whisper spoken. 
Could scarcely catch the feeble moan. 

Which told her heart was broken. 



WANDERING WILLIE. 
1806. 

All joy was bereft me the day that you 
left me. 
And climb'd the tall vessel to sail yon 
wide sea ; 
O weary betide it ! I wander beside it. 
And bann'd it for parting my Willie and 
me. 

Far o'er the wave hast thou follow'd thy 
fortune. 
Oft fought the squadrons of France and 
of Spain ; 



Ae kiss of welcome's worth twenty at part 
ing, 
Now I hae got my Willie again. 

WTien the sky it was mirk, and the winds 
they were wailing, 
I sat on the beach wi' the tear in my ee, 
And thought o' the bark where my Willie 
was sailing. 
And wish'd that the tempest could a' 
blaw on me. 

Now that thy gallant ship rides at her moor- 
ing. 
Now that my wanderer's in safety at 
hame, 
Music to me were the wildest winds' roar- 
ing, 
That e'er o'er Inch-Keith drove the dark 
ocean faem. 

When the lights they did blaze, and tlie 
guns they did rattle. 
And blithe was each heart for the great 
victory. 
In secret I wept for the dangers 01 battle. 
And the glory itself was scarce comfort 
to me. 

But now shalt thou tell, whil^I eagerly 
listen, • 

Of each bold adventure, and every brave 
scar ; 
And trust me, I'll smile, though my een 
they may glisten ; 
For sweet after danger's the tale of the 
war. 

And oh, how we doubt when there's distance 
'tween lovers, 
When there's naething to speak to the 
heart thro' the ee ; 
How often the kindest and warmest prove 
rovers. 
And the love of the faithfullest ebbs like 
the sea. 

Till, at times — could I help it ? — I pined 
and I ponder'd 
If love could change notes like the bird 
on the tree — 
Now I'll ne'er ask if thine eyes may hae 
wander'd. 
Enough, thy leal heart has been constant 
to me. 

WelcoiTie from sweeping o'er sea and 
through channel. 
Hardships and danger despising for 
fame, 







" Waken, lords and ladies gay ! 
On the mountain dawns tlie day." — Page 370- 




MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



379 



Furnishing story for glory's bright annal, 
Welcome, my wanderer, to Jeanie and 
hame ; 

Enough, now thy story in annals of glory 
Has humbled the pride of France, Hol- 
land, and Spain ; 
No mure slialt thou grieve me, no more shalt 
thou leave me, 
I never will part with my Willie again. 



HUNTING SONG* 



Waken, lords and ladies gay, 

On the mcuntain dawns the day, 

All the jolly chase is here 

With hawk, and horse, and hunting-spear ! 

Hounds are in their couples yelling. 

Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling, 

Merrily, merrily, mingle they, 

" Waken, lords and ladies gay." 

Waken, lords and ladies gay. 

The mist has left the mountaiji gray, 

Springleis in the dawn are steaming. 

Diamonds on the brake are gleaming : 

And foresters hav° busy been, 

To track the buck in thickets green ; 

Now we come to, chant our lay, 

" Waken, lords and ladies gay." 

Waken, lords and ladies gay, 
To the green-wood haste away ; 
We can show you wliere he lies. 
Fleet of foot, and tall of size ; 
We can show the marks he made 
When, 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd : 
You shall see him brought to bay, 
" \\'aken, lords and ladies gay." 

Louder, louder chant the lay. 

Waken, lords and ladies gay ! 

Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee, 

Run a course as well as we ; 

Time, stern huntsman ! who can baulk. 

Staunch as hound, and fleet as'hawk :• 

Thmk of this, and rise with day, 

Gentle lords and ladies gay. 



* Published in the continuation of Strutt's 
curious romance called " Queenhoo Hall," 
t8o8. 



HEALTH TO LORD MELVILLE.+ 

1806. 

Air — Carrickfergns. 

Since here we are set in array round the 

table, 
Five hundred good fellows well met in a 
hall. 
Come listen, brave boys, and I'll sing as I'm 
able. 
How innocence triumph'd, and pride got 
a fall. 

But push round the claret — 
Come, stewards, don't spare it — 
With rapture you'll drink to the toast that 1 
give: 

Here, boys. 
Off with it merrily — 
Melville forever, and long may he live ! 

Wnar were the Whigs doing, when 'ooklly 
pursuing, 
Pitt banish'd Rebellion, gave Treason a 
string .' 
Why, they swore on their honor, for Ar- 
thur O'Connor, 
And fought 'nard for Despard against 
country and king. 

Well, then, we knew, boys, 
Pitt and Melvihe were true boys. 
And the tempest was raised by the friends 
of Reform. 
Ah, woe ! 

Weep to his memory ; 
Low lies the Pilot that weather'd the storm ! 

And pray, don't you mind when the Blues 
first were raisiiig. 
And we scarcely could think the house 
safe o'er our heads ? 
When villains and coxcombs, French poli- 
tics praisiitg. 
Drove peace from our tables and sleep 
from our beds ? 

Our hearts they grew bolder 
When, musket on shoulder, 
Stepp'd forth our old Statesman example 
to give. 

Come, boys, never fear. 
Drink the Blue Grenadier — 
Here's to old Harry, and long may he live ! 
They would turn us adrift ; though rel}'. sir, 
upon it — 
Our own faithful chronicles warrant us 
that 

f A Broadside printed at th« time of Lord 

Melville's acquittal. 




38o 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The free mountaineer and his bonny blue 
bonnet 
Have oft gone as far as the regular's hat. 
We laugh at their taunting, 
For all we are wanting 
Is license our life for our country to give. 
Off with it merrily, 
Horse, foot, and artillery. 
Each loyal Volunteer, long may he live ! 

'Tis not us alone, boys — the Army and 
Navy 
Have each got a slap 'mid their politic 
pranks ; 
CORNWALLis cashier'd, that watch'd win- 
ters to save ye, 
And the Cape call'd a bauble, unworthy 
of thanks. 

But vain is their taunt ; 
No soldier sliall want 
The thanks that his country to valor can 
give; 

Come, boys, 
Drink it off merrily, — 
Sir David and Popham, and long may 
they livel 

And then our revenue — Lord knows how 
they view'd it, 
While each petty statesman talked lofty 
and big ; 
But the beer-tax was weak, as if Whitbread 
had brew'd it, 
And the pig-iron duty a shame to a pig. 
In vain is their vaunting ; 
Too surely there's wanting 
What judgment, experience, and steadiness 
give: 

Come, boys. 
Drink it off merrily, — 
Health to sage Melville, and long may 
he live 1 

Our King, too — our princess — I dare not 
say more, sir, — 
May Providence watch them with mercy 
and might ! 
While there's one Scottish hand that can 
wag a claymore, sir. 
They shall ne'er want a friend to stand up 
^or their right. 

Be damn'dhe that dare not, — 
For my part, I'll spare not 
To beauty afflicted a tribute to give ; 
Fill it up steadily. 
Drink it off readily — 
Here's to the Princess, and long may she 
live I 



And since we must not set Auld Reekie in 
glory, 
And make her brown visage as light as 
her heart ; * 
Till each man illummehis own upper story, 
Nor law-book nor lawyer shall force us to 
part. 

In Grenville and Spencer, 
And some few good men, sir, 
High talents we honor, slight difference 
forgive ; 

But the Brewer we'll hoax, 
Tallyho to the Fox, 
And drink Melville forever, as long as 
we live 1 



EPITAPH. 

Designed for a monument in Lichfield 

Cathedral, at the biirial-place of the family 

of Miss Seward 

Amid these aisles, where once his precepts 
show'd 

The Heavenward pathway which in life he 
trod. 

This simple tablet marks a Father's bier, 

And those he loved in life, in death are 
near ; 

For him, for them, a Daughter bade it rise, 

Memorial of domestic charities. 

Still wouldst thou know why, o'er the mar- 
ble spread. 

In female grace the willow droops her head ; 

Why on her branches, silent and unstrung. 

The minstrel harp is emblematic hung; 

What poet's voice is smothered here in dust. 

Till waked to join the chorus of the 
just, — ■ 

Lo ! one brief line an answer sad supplies, 

Honor'd, beloved, and mourn'd, here Sew- 
ard lies, 

Her worth, her warmth of heart, let friend- 
ship say, — 

Go seek her genius in her living lay. 



THE RESOLVE. 

in imitation of an old ENGLISa 

POEM. 

Published in the " Edinburgh Annual 
Register." 

1808. 
My wayward fate I needs must plain, 
Though bootless be the theme-. 



* The Edinburgh magistrates refused to per- 
mit illuminations. 




MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



I loved, and was beloved again, 

Yet all was but a dream ; 
For, as her love was quickly got, 

So it was quickly gone ; 
No more I'll bask in flame so hot. 

But coldly dwell alone. 
Not maid more bright than maid was e'er 

My fancy shall beguile. 
By flattering word or feigned tear. 

By gesture, look, or smile : 
No more I'll call the shaft fair shot, 

Till it has fairly flown. 
Nor scorch me at a flame so hot ; — 

I 'II rather freeze alone. 
Each ambush'd Cupid I '11 defy. 

In cheek, or chin, or brow, 
And deem the glance of woman's eye 

As weak as woman's vow : 
I '11 lightly hold the lady's heart. 

That is but lightly won ; 
I '11 steel my breast to beauty's art. 

And learn to live alone. 
The flaunting torch soon blazes out. 

The diamond's ray abides ; 
The flame its glory hurls about. 

The gem its lustre hides : 
Such gem I fondly deeni'd was mine. 

And glow'd a diamond stone, 
But, since each eye may see it shine, 

I 'U darkling dwell alone. 

No waking dream shall tinge my thought 

With eyes so bright and vain ; 
No silken net, so lightly wrought. 

Shall tangle me again : 
No more I '11 pay so dear for wit, 

I '11 live upon mine own ; 
Nor shall wild passion trouble it, — 

I '11 rather dwell alone. 
And thus I'll hush my heart to rest, — 

" Thy loving labor's lost ; 
Thou shalt no more be wildly blest. 

To be so strangely crost : 
Tlie widow'd turtles mateless die. 

The phoenix is but one ; 
They seek no loves — no more will I — 

I '11 rather dwell alone." 



PROLOGUE 

TO MISS BAILLIE'S PLAY OF THE 
FAMILY LEGEND. 

i8og. 
'T IS sweet to heat expiring Summer's sigh. 
Through forests tinged with russet, wail 
and die, 



'Tis sweet and sad the latest notes to hear 
Of distant music, dying on the ear ; 
But far more sadly sweet, on foreign strand 
We list the legends of our native land, 
Link'd as they come with every tender tie, 
Memorials dear of youth and infancy. 

Chief, thy wild tales, romantic Caledon, 
Wake keen remembrance in each hardy 

son. 
Whether on India's burnihg coasts he toil, 
Or till Arcadia's winter-fetter'd soil. 
He hears with throbbing heart and mois- 

ten'd eyes, 
And, as he hears, what dear illusions rise ! 
It opens on his soul his native deh, 
The woods wild waving, and the water's 

swell ; 
Tradition's theme, the tower that threats 

the plain. 
The mossy cairn that hides the hero slain ; 
The cot, beneath whose simple porch were 

told, 
By gray-hair'd patriarch, the tales of old, 
The infant group, that hush'd their sports 

the while, 
And the dear maid who listen'd with a 

smile. 
The wanderer, while the vision warms his 

brain. 
Is denizen of Scotland once again. 

Are such keen feelings to the crowd con- 
fined. 
And sleep they in the Poet's gifted mind ? 
Oh no ! For She, within whose mighty 

page 
Each tyrant Passion shows his woe and 

rage, 
Has felt the wizard influence they inspire. 
And to your own traditions tuned her lyre. 
Yourselves shall judge — whoe'er has raised 

the sail 
By Mull's dark coast, has heard this even- 
ing's tale. 
The plaided boatman ,*resting on his oar, 
Points to the fatal rock amid the roar 
Of whitening waves, and tells whate'er to- 
night 
Our humble stage shall offer to your sight ; 
Proudly preferr'd that first our efforts give 
Scenes glowing from her pen to breathe 

and live ; 
More proudly yet, should Caledon approve 
The fiiial token of a daughter's love. 




lie 




382 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 




THE POACHER. 

Written in imitation of Crabbe, arid pub- 
lished in the Edinburgh Annual Register of 
1S09. 

Welcome, grave Stranger, to our green 

retreats, 
Where health with exercise and freedom 

meers ; 
Thrice welcome, Sage, whose philosophic 

plan 
By nature's limits metes the rights of man ! 
Generous as he, who now for freedom 

bawls. 
Now gives full value for true Indian 

shawls : 
O'er court, o'er custom-house, his shoe who 

flings. 
Now bilks excisemen, and now bullies 

kings ! 
Like his, I ween, thy comprehensive mind 
Holds laws as mouse-traps baited for man 

kind; 
Thine eye, applausive, each sly vermin sees, 
That baulks the snare, yet battens on the 

cheese ? 
Thine ear has heard, with scorn instead of 

awe, 
Our buck-skinn'd justices expound the law. 
Wire-draw the acts that fix for wires the 

pain, 
And for the netted partridge noose the 

swain ? 
And thy vindictive arm would fain have 

broke 
The last light fetter of the feudal yoke, 
To give the denizens of wood and wild, 
Nature's free race, to each her free-born 

child. 
Hence hast thou mark'd, vrith grief, fair 

London's race 
Mock'd with the boon of one poor Easter 

chase. 
And long'd to send them forth as free as 

when 
Pour'd o'er Chantilly the Parisian train. 
When nuisket, pistol, blunderbuss, com- 
bined, 
And scarce the field-pieces were left be- 
hind ! 
A squadron's charge each leveret's heart 

dismay'd, 
On every covey fired a bold brigade. 
La Douce Humanite approved the sport. 
For great the alarm indeed, yet small the 

hurt ; 



Shouts patriotic solemnized the day, 
And Seine re-echo'd Vive la Liberie ' 
But mad Citoycn, meek Monsieur agam, 
With some few added links /esumes his 

chain. 
Then, since such scenes to France no mure 

are known. 
Come, view with me a hero of thine own ! 
One, whose free actions vindicate the cause 
Of sylvan liberty o'er feudal laws. 

Seek we our glades, where the proud 

oak o'ertops 
Wide-waving seas of birch and hazel copse, 
Leaving between deserted isles of land, 
Where stunted heath is patch'd with ruddy 

sand , 
And lonely on the waste the yew is seen. 
Or straggling hollies spread a brighter green. 
Here, little worn, and winding dark and 

steep, 
Our scarce mark'd path descends yon dingle 

deep : 
Follow — but heedful, cautious of a trip, — 
In earthly mire philosophy may slip. 
Step slow and wary o'er that swampy 

stream, 
Till, guided by the charcoal's smothering 

steam, 
We reach the frail yet barricaded door 
Of hovel form'd for poorest of the poor ; 
No hearth the fire, no vent the smoke re- 
ceives. 
The walls are wattles, and the covering 

leaves ; 
For, if such hut, our forest statutes say. 
Rise in the progress of one night and day 
(Though placed where still tne Concjueror's 

hests o'erawe, 
And his son's stirrup shines the badge of 

law). 
The builder claims the unenviable boon. 
To tenant dwelling, framed as slight and 

soon 
As wigwam wild, that shrouds the native frore 
On the bleak coast of frost-barr'd Labrador.* 

Approach, and through the unlatticed 
window peep — 

Nay, shrink not back, the inmate is asleep; 

Sunk mid yon sordid blankets, till the sun 

Stoop to the west, the plunderer's toils are 
done. 

Loaded and primed, and prompt for des- 
perate hand, 

* Tlie New Forest is now disforested, and 
its laws, &c., becorue a tiling of tlie past 




MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



38^ 



Rifle and fowling-piece beside him stand ; 
While round the hut are in disorder laid 
The tools and hooty of his lawless trade : 
For force or fraud, resistance or escape, 
The crow, the saw, the bludgeon, and the 

crape. 
His pOfer'd pn.vder in yon nook he hoai-ds, 
And the filch'd lead the church's roof 

affords — 
Hence shall the rector's congregation fret. 
That while his semion's dry his walls are 

wet.) 
The fish-spear barb'd, the sweeping net are 

there, 
Doe-hides, and pheasant plumes, and skins 

of hare. 
Cordage for toils, and wiring for the snare. 
Barter'd for game from chase or warren 

won, 
Yon cask holds moonlight,* run when 

moon was none ; 
And late-snatch'd spoils lie stow'd in hatch 

apart, 
To wait the associate higgler's evening cart. 

Look on his pallet foul, and mark his 

rest : 
What scenes perturb'd are acting in his 

breast ! 
His sable brow is wet and wrung with pain. 
And his dilated nostril toils in vain ; 
For short and scant the breath each effort 

draws. 
And 'twixt each effort Nature claims a 

pause. 
Beyond the loose and sable neckcloth 

stretch'd. 
His sinewy throat seems by convulsion 

twitch'd. 
While the tongue falters, as to utterance 

loth, 
Sounds of dire import — watchword, threat, 

and oath. 
Though, stupefied by toil, and drugg'd 

with gin, 
The body sleep, the restless guest within 
Xow plies on wood and wold his lawless 

trade. 
Now in the fangs of justice wakes dis- 

may'd. — 

*' Was that wild start of terror and de- 
spair, 

Those bursting eyeballs, and that wilder'd 
air, 

Signs of compunction for a murder'd hare ? 

* A cant term for smuftglerl spirits. 



Do the locks bristle and the eyebrows arch, 
For grouse or partridge massacred in 

March ? " 

No, scoffer, no! Attend, and mark witli 

awe, 
There is no wicket in the gate of law ! 
He, that would e'er so lightly set ajar 
That awful portal, must undo each bar : 
Tempting occasion, habit, passion, pride, 
Will join to storm tl:e breach, and force thfc 

barrier wide. 



That ruffian, whom true men avoid and 

dread, 
Whom bruisers, poachers, smugglers, call 

Black Ned, 
Was Edward Mansell once; — the lightest 

heart 
That ever play'd on holiday his part ! 
The leader he in every Christmas game, 
The harvest-feast grew blither when he 

came, 
And liveliest on the chords the bow did 

glance. 
When Edward named the tune and led the 

dance. 
Kind was his heart, his passions quick and 

strong. 
Hearty his laugh, and jovial was his song ; 
And if he loved a gun, his father swore, 
" 'Twas but a trick of youth would soon be 

o'er. 
Himself had done the same some thirty 

years before." 

But he whose humors spurn law's awful 

yoke. 
Must herd with those by whom law's bonds 

are broke. 
The common dread of justice soon allies 
The clown, who robs the warren, or excise, 
With sterner felons train' d to act more 

dread. 
Even with the wretch by whom his fellow 

bled. 
Then, — as in plagues the foul contagions 

pass. 
Leavening and festering the corrupted 

mass, — 
Guilt leagues with guilt, while mutual mo- 
tives draw. 
Their hope impunity, their fear the law ; 
Their foes, their friends, their rendezvous 

the same, 
Till the revenue baulk'd, or pilfer'd game. 




SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Flesh the young culprit, and example leads 
To darker villany, and direr deeds 

Wild howl'd the wind the forest glades 

along, 

And oft the owl renew'd her dismal song ; 
Around the spot where erst he felt the 

wound, 
Red William's spectre walk'd his midnight 

round. 
When o'er the swamp he cast bis blighting 

look, 
From the green marshes of tfte stagnant 

brook 
The bittern's sullen shout the sedges 

shook I 
The waning moon, with storm-presaging 

gleam, 
Now gave, and now withheld her doubtful 

beam ; 
The old Oak stoop'd his arms, then flung 

them high, 
Bellowing and groaning to the troubled 

sky — 
'Twas then, that, couch'd amid the brush- 
wood sere. 
In Mai wood-walk young Mansell watch' d 

the deer : 
The fattest buck received his deadly shot — 
The watchful keeper heard, and sought the 

spot. 
Stout were their hearts, and stubborn was 

their strife, 
O'erpower'd at length the Outlaw drew his 

knife 1 
Next morn a corpse was found upon the 

fell— 
The rest his waning agony may tell 1 



Though thy form, that wasfashion'd as light 
as a fay's, 
Has assumed a proportion more round. 
And thy glance, that was bright as a falcon's 
at gaze, 
Looks sober'y now on the ground, — 

Enough, after absence to meet me again, 

Thy steps still witli ecstacy move ; 
Enough, that those dear sober glances 

retain 
■ For me the kind lan2;uage of love. 



SONG. 



Oh, say not, my love, with that mortified 
air. 
That your spring-time of pleasure is 
flown. 
Nor bid me to maids that are younger 
repair. 
For those raptures that still are thine own. 

Though April his temples may wreathe with 
the vine, 
its tendrils in infancy curl'd, 
'Tis the ardor of August matures us the 
wine. 
Whose life-blood enlivens tlie world- 




THE BOLD DRAGOON; 

OR, THE PLAIN OF BADAJOS. 
l8l2. 

'TvvAS a Marechal of France, and he fain 

would honor gain. 
And he long'd to take a passing glance at 
Portugal from Spain ; 
With his iiymg guns this gallant gay, 
And boasted corps d'arm^e — 
O he fear'd not our dragoons, with their 
long swords, boldly riding, 
Whack, fal de ral, &c. 

To Campo Mayor come, he had quietly sat 

down. 
Just a fricassee to pick, while his soldiers 
sack'd the town. 
When, 'twas peste 1 morbleu ! mon 

General, 
Hear the English bugle-call ! 
And behold the light dragoons, with their 
long swords, boldly riding, 
Whack, fal de ral, &c. 

Right about went horse and foot, artillery 

and all, 
And, as the devil leaves a house, they 
tumbled through the wall ; 
They took no time to seek the door, 
But, best foot set before — 
O they ran from our dragoons, with their 
long swords, boldly riding, 
Whack, fal de ral, &c. 
Those valiant men of France they had 

scarcely fled a mile. 
When on their flank there soused at once 
the British rank and file : 
For Long, De Grey and Otway, then 
Ne'er minded one to ten, 
But came on like light dragoons.- with their 
long swords, boldly riding, 
Whack, fal de ral, &c. 



4— ' 




MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



385 



Three liundred British lads they made three 

thousand reel, 
Their hearts were made of Enghsh oak, 
their swords of Sheffield steel, 
Their horses were m Yorkshire bred, 
And Beresford them led , 
So huzza for brave dragoons, with their 
long swords, boldly riding, 
Whack, fal de ral, &c. 

Then here's a health to Wellington, to 

Beresford, to Long, 
And a single word of Bonaparte before 1 
close my song ; 
The eagles that to fight he brings 
Should serve his men with wings, 
When they meet the bold dragoons, with 
tlieir long swords, boldly riding, 
Whack, fal de ral, &c. 



ON THE MASSACRE OF GLENCOE. 

1814. 

" In the beginning of the year 1692, an action 
of unexampled barbarity disgraced the govern- 
ment of King William III. in Scotland. In the 
August preceding, a proclamation had been 
issued offering an indemnity to such insurgents 
as should take the oaths to the King and Queen, 
on or before the last day of December ; and the 
chiefs of such tribes as had been in arms for 
James, soon after took advantage of the procla- 
mation. But Macdonald of Glencoe was pre- 
vented by accident, rather than by design, from 
tendering his submission within the limited 
time. In the end of December he went to 
Colonel Hill, who commanded the garrison in 
Fort William, to take the oaths of allegiance to 
the government ; and the latter having furnished 
him with a letter to Sir Colin Campbell, sheriff 
of the county of Argyle, directed him to repair 
immediately to Inverary, to make his submis- 
sion in a legal manner before that magistrate. 
But the way to Inverary lay through almost 
impassable mountains, the season was extremely 
rigorous, and the whole country was covered 
with a deep snow. So eager, however, was 
Macdonald to take the oaths before the limited 
time should expire, that, though the road lay 
within half a mile of his own house, he stopped 
not to visit his family, and, after vari us ob- 
structions, arrived at Inverary. The time had 
elapsed, and the sheriff hesitated -o receive his 
submission; but Macdonald prevailed by his im- 
portunities, and even tears, in inducmg that 
imictionary to administer to him the oath of 
aliegiance, and to certify the cause of his 
dehiv. At this time Sir John Dalrymple, after- 



wards Earl of Stair, bemg in attendance upon 
William as Secretary of State for Scotland, 
took advantage of Macdonald's neglecting to 
take the oath within the time prescribed, and 
procured from the king a warrant of military 
execution against that chief and his whole clau. 
This was done at the instigation of the Earl of 
Breadalbane, whose lands the Glencoe men had 
plundered, and whose treachery to government 
in negotiating with the Highland clans, Mac- 
donald himself had exposed. The King was 
accordingly persuaded that Glencoe was the 
main obstacle to the pacification of the High 
lands ; and the fact of the unfortunate chief's 
submission having been concealed, the san- 
guinary orders for proceeding to military exe- 
cution against his clan were in consequence 
obtained. The warrant was both signed and 
countersigned by the King's own hand, and 
the Secretary urged the officers who commanded 
in the Highlands to execute their orders with 
the utmost rigor. Campbell of Glenlyon, a 
captain in Argyle's regiment, and two subal- 
terns, were ordered to repair to Glencoe on the 
first of February with a hundred and twenty 
men. Campbell, being uncle to young Mac- 
donald's wife, was received by the father with 
all manner of friendship and hospitality. The 
men were lodged at free quarters in the houses 
of his tenants, and received the kindest enter- 
tainment. Till the 13th of the month the 
troops lived in the utmost harmony and famili- 
arity with the people ; and on the very night 
of the massacre the officers passed the evening 
at cards in Macdonald's house. In the night. 
Lieutenant Lindsay, with a party of soldiers, 
called in a friendly manner at his door, and 
was instantly admitted. Macdonald, while in 
the act of rising to receive his guest, was shot 
dead through the back with two bullets. His 
wife had aheady dressed; but she was stripped 
naked by the soldiers, who tore the rings off 
her fingers with their teeth. The slaughter 
now became general, and neither age nor in- 
firmity was spared. Some women, in defend- 
ing their children, were killed ; boys imploring 
mercy were shot dead by officers on whose 
knees they hung. In one place nine persons, 
as they sat enjoying themselves at table, were 
butchered by the soldiers. In Inverriggon, 
Campbell's own quarters, nine men were first 
bound by the soldiers, and then shot at intervals 
one by one. Nearly forty persons were mas- 
sacred by the troops ; and several who fled to 
the mountains perished by famine and the 
inclemency of the season. Those who escaped 
owed their lives to a tempestuous night. Lieu- 
tenant Colonel Hamilton, who had received the 
charge of the execution from Dalrymple, was on 
his march with four hundred men, to guard all 
the passes from the valley of Glencoe ; but he was 
obliged to stop by the severity of the weather, 
which proved the safety of the unfortunate 
clan. Next day he entered the valley, laid the 
houses in ashes, and carried away the cattle 



^ 








386 



scorrs poetical works. 



and spoil, v/luch were divided among the 
officers and soldiers." — Article "Britain;" 
Eiicyc. Briiannica. — A^ew Edition. 

'• O TELL me, Harper wherefore flow 
Thy wayward notes of wail and woe, 
Far down the desert of Glencoe, 

Where none may list their melody ? 
Say, harp'st thou to the mists that fly, 
Or to the dun-deer glancing by. 
Or to the eagle, that from high 

Screams chorus to thy minstrelsy ? "— 

" No, not to these, for they have rest, — 
Tue mist-wreath has the mountain-crest 
The stag his lair, the erne her nest, 

Abode of lone security. 
But those for whom 1 pour the lay, 
Not wild-wood deep, nor mountain gray, 
Not this deep dell, that shrouds from day, 

Could screen from treach'rous cruelty. 

'• Their flag was furl'd, and mute their 

drum, 
The very household dogs were dumb, 
Unwont to bay at guests that come 

In guise of hospitality. 
His blithest notes the piper plied. 
Her gayest snood the maiden tied, 
The dame her distaff flung aside, 

To tend her kindly housewifery. 

" The hand that mingled m the meal, 
At midnight drew the felon steel, 
And gave the host's kind breast to feel 

Meed for his liospitality ! 
The friendly hearth which warm'd that 

hand, 
At midnight arm'd it with the brand, 
That bade destruction's flames expand 

Their red and fearful blazonry. 

" Then woman's shriek was heard m vain, 

Nor infancy's unpitied plain, 

More than the warrior's groan, could gaui 

Respite from ruthless butchery ! 
The winter wind that whistled shrill, 
Tlie snows that night that cloked the hill, 
Though wild and pitiless, had still 

Far more than Southern clemency. 

•' Long have my harp's best notes been 

gone. 
Few are its strings, and faint their tone. 
They can but sound in desert lone 

Their gray-hair'd master's misery. 
Were each gray hair a minstrel string. 
Each chord should imprecations fling, 
Till startled Scotland loud should ring, 

' Revenge for blood and treachery ! ' '^ 



FOR A' THAT AN' A' THAT. 

A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE, 
1S14. 

Though right be aft put down by strength. 

As mony a day we saw that, 
The true and leilfu' cause at length 

Shall bear the grie for a' that. 
For a' that an' a' that. 

Guns, guillotines, and a' that, 
The Fleur-de-lis, that lost her right, 

Is queen again for a' that ! 

We'll twine her in a friendly knot 

With England's Rose, and a' that; 
The Sliamrock shall not be forgot. 

For Wellington made braw that. 
The Thistle, though her leaf be rude. 

Vet faith we'll no misca' that. 
She shelter'd in her solitude 

The Fleur-de-lis, for a' that. 

The Austrian Vine, the Prussian Pine 

(For Blucher's sake, 'nurra that), 
The Spanish Olive, too, shall joir.. 

And bloom in peace for a' that. 
Stout Russia's Hemp, so surely twined 

Around our wreath we'll draw that. 
And he that would the cord unbind, 

Shall have it for his cra-vat ! 

Or, if to choke sae puir a sot. 

Your pity scorn to thraw that. 
The Devil's elbow be his lot. 

Where he may sit and claw that. 
In spite of slight, in spite of might. 

In spite of brags, an' a' that, 
The lads that battled for the right, 

Have won the day, an' a' that ! 

There's ae bit spot I had forgot. 

America they ca' that ; 
A coward plot her rats had got 

Their father's flag to knavv that ; 
Now see it fly top-gallant high, 

Atlantic winds shall blaw that, 
.A.nd Yankee loon, beware your croun. 

There's kames in hand to claw tliat ! 

For on the land, or on the sea, 
Where'er the breezes blaw that. 

The British flag shall bear the grie, 
And win the day for a' tliat t 



1 






MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



3S7 



SONG, 

FOR THE ANNIVERSARY MEETING OF 
THE PITT CLUB OF SCOTLAND. 

1S14. 

0, DREAD was the time, and more dreadful 
the omen, 
When the brave on Marengo lay 
slaughter'd in vain, 
And beholding broad Europe bow'd down 
by her foemen, 
Pitt closed in his anguish the map of her 
reign ! 
Not the fate of broad Europe could bend 
his brave spirit 
To take for his country the safety of 
shame ; 
O, then in her triumph remember liis 
merit, 
And hallow the goblet that flows to his 
name. 

Round the husbandman's head, while he 
traces the furrow, 
The mists of the winter may mingle with 
rain. 
He may plough it with labor, and sow it in 
sorrow, 
And sigh while he fears he has sow'd it 
m vain ; 
He may die ere his children shall reap m 
their gladness, 
But the blithe harvest-home shall re- 
member his claim ; 
And their jubilee-shout shall be soften'd 
with sadness. 
While they hallow the goblet that flows 
to his name 

Though anxious and timeless his life was 

expended, 
In toils for our country preserved by his 

care. 
Though he died ere one ray o'er the nations 

ascended, 
To light the long darkness of doubt and 

despair ; 
The storms he endured in our Britain's 

December, 
The perils his wisdom foresaw and o'er- 

came, 
In her glory's rich harvest shall Britain 

rememlier, 
And hallow the goblet that flows to his 

name. 



Nor forget His gray head, who, all dark in 
affliction, 
Is deaf to the tales of our victories won, 
And to sounds the most dear to paternal 
affection, 
The shout of his people applauding his 
Son ; 
By his firmness unmoved in success and 
disaster, 
By his long reign of virtue, remember his 
claim ! 
With our tribute to Pitt join the praise of 
his Master, 
Though a tear stain the goblet that flows 
to his name. 

Yet again fill the wine-cup, and change the 
sad measure, 
The rites of our grief and our gratitude 
paid. 
To our Prince, to our Heroes, devote the 
bright treasure, 
The wisdom that plann'd, and the zeal 
that obey'd; 
Fill Wellington's cup till it beam like 
his glory, 
Forget not our own brave Dalhousie 
and Gr^CiME ; 
A thousand years hence hearts shall bound 
at their story. 
And hallow the goblet that flows to their 
fame. 



LINES, 

ADDRESSED TO RANALD M.ACDONALD, 
ESQ., OF STAFFA.* 

1814. 

Staffa, sprung from high Macdonald, 
Worthy branch of old Clan-Ranald ! 
Staft'a ! king of all kind fellows ! 
Well befall thy hills and valleys. 
Lakes and inlets, deeps and shallows 
Cliffs of darkness, caves of wonder. 
Echoing the Atlantic thunder ; 
Mountains which the gray mist covers. 
Where the Chieftain spirit hovers, 

* Afterwards Sir Reginald Macdonald Stewart 
Seton, of Staffa, Allanton, and Touch, Baronet. 
He died i6th April, 1838, m his 6ist year. The 
reader will find a warm tribute to Staffa's 
character as a Highland landlord, in Scott's 
article on Sir John Carr's Caledonian Sketches 
— Miscellaneous Prose Works, vol xix. 



w 





3S8 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Pausing while his pinions quiver, 
Stretch'd to quit our land forever ! 
Each kind influence reign above thee! 
Warmer heart 'twixt this and Staffa, 
Beats not, than in heart of Staffa! 



PHAROS LOQUITUR.* 

Far in the bosbm of the deep. 

O'er these wild shelves my watch I keep; 

A ruddy gem of changeful light. 

Bound on the dusky brow of night, 

The seaman bids my lustre hail, 

And scorns to strike his timorous sail. 



LETTER IN VERSE 

ON THE VOYAGE WITH THE COMMIS- 
SIONERS OF NORTHERN LIGHTS. 

" Of the letters which Scolt wrote to his 
friends during those happy six weeks, I have 
recovered only one, and it is, thanks to the 
leisure of the yacht, ni verse. The strong 
and easy heroics of the first section prove, I 
think, that Mr. Canning did not err when he 
told him that if he chose he might emulate 
even Dryden's command of that noble measure ; 
and the dancing anapaests of the second, 
show that he could with equal facility have 
rivalled the gay graces of Cotton, AnsteV, or 
Moore." — Lockhart, Life, vol. iv., p. 372. 



TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF BUCCLEUCH, 
&C. &C. &C. 

Lighthouse Yacht, in the Sound of Lerwick, 
Zetland, 8th August, 1S14. 

Health to the chieftain from his clans- 
man true 1 
From her true minstrel, health to fair Buc- 
cleuch I 



* " On the 30th of July, 1S14, Mr. Hamilton, 
Mr. Erskine, and Mr. Duff, Commissioners, 
along \vith Mr. (now Sir) Walter Scott, and 
the writer, visited the Lighthouse ; the Com- 
missioners being then on one of their voyages 
of Inspection, noticed in the Introduction. 
They breakfasted in the Library, when Sir 
Walter, at the entreaty of the party, upon in- 
scribing his name in the Album, added these 
interestmg lines." — Stevenson'' s Account of tlie 
Bell-Rock Lighthouse. 1824. Scott's Diary 
of the Voyage is now publisned in the 4th 
volume of his Life. 



Health from the isles, where dewy Morning 

weaves 
Her chaplet with the tints that Twilight 

leaves ; 
Where late the sun scarce vanish'd Irom the 

sight, 
And his bright pathway graced the short-lived 

night. 
Though darker now as autumn's shades 

extend, 
The north winds whistle and the mists 

ascend ! 
Health from the land where eddying whirl- 
winds toss 
The storm-rock'd cradle of the Cape of Noss '. 
On outstretch'd cords the giddy engine sudes, 
His own strong arm the bold adventurer 

guides, 
And he that lists such desperate feat to try, 
May, like the sea-mew, skim 'twixt earth and 

sky, 
And feel thi mid-air gales around him blow. 
And see the billows rage hve hundred feet 

below. 
Here, by each stormy peak and desert 

shore, 
The hardy islesman tugs the daring oar, 
Practiced alike his venturous course to keep, 
Through the white breakers or the pathless 

deep, 
By ceaseless peril and by toil to gain 
A wretched pittance from the niggard main 
And when the worn out drudge old ocean 

leaves, [ceivesf 

What comfort greets him, and what hut re- 
Lady ! the worst your presence ere has 

cheer'd 
(When want and sorrow fled as you ap- 

pear'd) 
Were to a Zetlander as the high dome 
Of proud Drumlanrig to my humble home. 
Here rise no groves, and here no gardens 

blow, 
Here even the hardy heath scarce dares to 

grow ; 
But rocks on rocks, in mist and storm 

array'd, 
Stretch far to sea their giant colonnade, 
With many a cavern seam'd, the dreary 

hfcunt 
Of the dun seal and swarthy cormorant. 
Wild round their rifted brows, with frequent 

cry 
Ks of lament, the gulls and gannets fly. 
And from their sable base, with sullen sound, 
In sheets of whitening foam the waves 

rebound. 




-^ 




h 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



389 



Yet even these coasts a touch of envy gain 
From those vviiose iand has known oppres- 
sion's chain , 
For here ihe industrious Dutchman comes 

once more 
To moor his fishing craft by Bressey's shore , 

Greets every lormer mate and brother tar, 
Marvels how Lerwick 'scaped the rage of war, 
Tells manv a tale of Gallic outrage done. 
And ends by blessing God and Wellington, 
Here too the Greenland tar, a fiercer guest, 
Claims a brief hour of riot, not of rest : 
Proves each wild frolic that in wine has birth. 
And wakes the land with brawls and bolster 

ous mirth- 
A sadder sight on yon poor vessel's prow 
The captive Norseman sits in silent woe, 
And eyes the flags of Britain as they flow. 
Hard fate of war, which bade her terrors 

sway 
His destined course, and seize so mean a 

prey , 
A bark with planks so warp'd and seams so 

riven. 
She scarce might face the gentlest air of 

heaven ; 
Pensive he sits, and questions oft if none 
Can hst his speech, and understand his 

moan ; 
In vain — no Islesman now can use the tongue 
Of the bold Norse, from whom their lineage 

spring. 
Not thus of old the Norseman hither came, 
Won by the love of danger or of fame ; 
On every storm-beat cape a shapeless tower 
Tells of their wars, their conquests, and their 

power ; 
For ne'er for Grecia's vales, or Latain land. 
Was fiercer strife than for this barren strand ; 
A race severe — the isle and ocean lords 
Loved for its own delight the strife of swords ; 
With scornful laugh the mortal pang defied, 
And blest their gods that they in battle died. 
Such were the series of Zetland's simple 

race, 
And still the eye may faint resemblance 

trace 
In the blue eye, tall form, proportion fair. 
The limbs athletic, and the long light hair — 
(Such was the mien, as Scald and Minstrel 

sings, 
Of fair-hair'd Harold, first of Norway's 

Kings) ; 
But their high deeds to scale these crags 

confined, 
Their onlv warfare is with waves and wind. 



Why should I talk of Mousa's castled 

coast ? 
Why of the horrors of the Sumburgh Rost .'' 
May not these bald disjointed lines suffice, 
Penn'd while my comrades whirl the rattling 

dice — 
While down the cabin skylight lessening 

shine 
The rays, and eve is chased with mirth and 

wine '' 
Imagined, while down Mousa's desert bay 
Our well trimm'd vessel urged her mmbl 

way, 
While to the freshening breeze she lean'd 

her side, 
And bade her bowsprit kiss the foamy tide ? 

Such are the lays that Zetland isles supply; 
Drench'd with the drizzly spray and dropping 

sky. 
Weary and wet, a sea-sick minstrel I 

POSTSCRIPTUM, 
Kirkwall, Orkney. Aug. 13, 1814. 

In respect that your Grace has commission'd 

a Kraken, 
You will please be inform'd that they seldom 

are taken ; 
It is January two years, the Zetland folks 

say. 
Since they saw the last Kraken in Scalloway 

bay ; 
He lay in the offing a fortnight or more, 
But the devil a Zetlander put from the shore, 
Though bold in the seas of the North to 

assail 
The morse and the sea-horse, the grampus 

and whale. 
If your Grace thinks I'm writing the thing 

that is not. 
You may ask at a namesake of ours, Mr. 

Scott— 
(He's not from our clan, though his merits 

deserve it. 
But springs I'm inform'd, from the Scotts 

of Scotstarvet) ; * 
He question'd the folks who beheld it with 

eyes. 
But they differ'd confoundedly as to the size. 
For instance, the modest and diffident swore 
That it seem'd like the keel of a ship, and no 

more — 

* The Scotts of Scotstarvet, and other families 
of the same in Fife and elsewhere, claim no 
kindred witli the great clan of the Border — and 
their armorial bearings are different. 



•^4- 



.TT. 



W 




C I 1 



39° 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Those ot eyesight more clear, or of fancy 

more high, 
Said it rose lilce an island 'twixt ocean and 

sky — 
But all of the hulk had a steady opinion 
That 'twas sure a live subject of Neptune's 

dominion — 
And I think, my Lord Duke, your Grace 

hardly would wish, 
To cumber your house, such a kettle of fish. 
Had your order related to night-caps or hose. 
Or mittens of worsted, there's plenty of those. 
Or would you be pleased but to fancy a 

whale ' 
And direct me to send it — by sea or by mail t 
Tlie season, I'm told, is nigh over, but still 
I could get you one fit for the lake at Bow- 

liill. 
Indeed, as to whales, there's no need to be 

thrifty, 
Since one day last fortnight two hundred and 

fifty, 

Pursued by seven Orkneymen's boats and no 

more, 
Betwixt Trutfness and Luffness were drawn 

on the shore ! 
You'd ask if I saw this same wonderful sight ; 
I own that J did not, but easily might — 
For this mighty shoal of leviathans lay 
On our lee-beam a mile, in the loop of the 

bay, 
And the islesmen of Sanda were all at the 

spoil, [boil ; 

hnA Jihicking, (so term it) the blubber to 
(Ye spirits of lavender, drown the reflection 
That awakes at the thought of this odorous 

dissection.) 
To see this huge marvel full fain would we 

go, 
But Wilson, the wind, and the current, said 

no. 
We have now got to Kirkwall, and needs I 

must stare 
When I think that in verse I have once call'd 

it /(?/;- ,• 
Tis a base little borough, both dirty and 

mean — 
There's nothing to hear, and there's nought 

to be seen, 
Save a church, where, of old times, a prelate 

harangued. 
And a palace that's built by an earl that was 

hang'd. 
But, farewell to Kirkwall — aboard we are 

going. 
The anchor's a-peak, and the breezes are 

blowing ; 



Our commodore calls all his band to the'u 

places, 
And 'tis time to release you — good night to 

your Graces ' 



JDcrsts from Mawukg 



Ibl4 

" The iollowing song, which has been since 
borrowed by the worshipful author of the 
famous ' History of Fryar Bacon,' has been 
witli difficulty deciphered. It seems to have 
been sung on occasions of carrying home the 
bride." 

(i.)-BRIDAL SONG. 

To the tune of " I have been a Fiddler^' (S»C. 

And did ye not hear of a mirth befell 
The morrow -after a wedding day. 

And carrying a bride at home to dwell r 
And away to Tewin, away, away. 

The quintain was set, and the garlands were 
made, 

'Tis pity old customs should ever decay : 
And woe be to him that was horsed on a jade, 

For he carried no credit away, away. 

We met a concert of fiddle-de-dees , 

We set them a-cockhorse, and made them 
play 

The winning of BuUen, and Upsey-frees, 
And away to Tewin, away, away ! 

There was ne'er a lad in all the parish 
That would go to the plough that day ; 

But on his fore-horse his wench he carries. 
And away to Tewin, away, away ! 

The butler was quick, and the ale he did tap 
The maidens did make the chamber fuIi 
gay ; 

The servants did give me a fuddling cup, 
And I did carry't away, away. 

The smith of the town his liquor so took, 
That he was persuaded that the ground 
look'd blue ; 

And I dare boldly be sworn on a book, 
Such smith as he there's but a few. 

A posset was made, and the women did sip, 
And simpering said,they could eat no more; 

Full many a maiden was laid on the lip. — 
I'll say no more, but give o'er (give o'er). 
Appendix to the General Preface 






MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



391 



^ongs an& joints fiflm SMaufrkg. 

" On receiving intelligence of his commis- 
sion as captain of a troop of i.orse in Colonel 
Gardiner's reigment, his tutor, Mr. Pembroke, 
picked up about Edward's room some fragments 
of irregular verse, which he appeared to have 
composed under the influence of the agitating 
feelings occasioned by this sudden page being 
turned up to him in the book of life." — Waver- 
ley, chap. v. 

Late, when the autumn evening fell 
On Mirkvvood-Mcre's romantic dell, 
The lake return'd in chasten'd gleam, 
The purple cloud, the golden beam 
Reflected in the crystal pool, 
Headland and bank lay fair and cool ; 
The weathev-tinted rock and tower. 
Each drooping tree, each fairy flower, 
So true, so soft, the mirror gave. 
As if there lay beneath the wave. 
Secure from trouble, toil, and care, 
A world than earthly world more fair. 

But distant winds began to wake. 
And roused the Genius of the Lake ! 
He heard the groaning of the oak, 
And donn'd at once his sable cloak. 
As warrior, at the battle cry, 
Invests him with his panoply ; 
Then, as the whirlwind nearer press'd, 
He 'gan to shake his foamy crest. 
O'er furrow'd brow and blacken'd cheek, 
And bade his surge m thunder speak. 
In wild and broken eddies whirl'd, 
Flitted that fond ideal world ; 
And, to the shore in tumult tost. 
The realms of fairy bliss were lost. 

Yet, with a stern delight and strange, 
I saw the spirit-stirring change, 
As warr'd the wind with wave and wood, 
Upon the ruin'd tower I stood. 
And felt my heart more strongly bound, 
Responsive to the lofty sound. 
While, joying in the inighty roar, 
I mourn' d that tranquil scene no more. 

So, on the idle dreams of youth 
Breaks the loud trumpet call of truth. 
Bids each fair vision pass away. 
Like landscape on the lake that lay. 
As fair, as flitting, and as frail, 
a A5 that which fled the autumn gale — 
Fcirever dead to fancy's eye 
Be each gay form that glided by. 
While dreams of love and lady's charms 
Give place to honor and to arms ! 



DAVIE GELLATLEY'S SONGS. 

•' He (Daft Davie Gellatley) sung with great 
earnestness, and not without some taste, a 
fragment of an old Scotch ditty: " 

False love, and hast thou play'd me this 

In summer among the flowers .' 
I will repay thee back again 

In winter among the showers. 
Unless again, again, my love, 

Unless you turn again ; 
As you with other maidens rove, 

I'll smile on other men. 

The Knight's to the mountain 

His bugle to wind : 
The Lady's to greenwood 

Her garland to bind 
The bower of Burd Ellen 

Has moss on the floor. 
That the step of Lord William 

Be silent and sure. — Chap. ix. 

" The stamping of horses was now heard in 
the court, and Davie Gellatley's voice singing 
to the two large deer grayhounds." 

HiE away, hie away. 
Over bank and over brae, 
Where the copsewood is the greenest, 
Where the fountains glisten sheenest. 
Where the lady-fern grows strongest, 
Where the morning dew lies longest, 
Where the black-cock sweetest sips it, 
Where the fairy latest trips it : 
Hie to haunts right seldom seen. 
Lovely, lonesome, cool, and green, 
Over bank and over brae. 
Hie away, hie away. — Chap. xii. 

Young men will love thee more fair and 
more fast ; 
Heard yc so merry the little bird sing ? 
Old men's love the longest will last, 
And the throstle cock's head ts itnder his 
wing. 

The young man's wrath is like light straw 
on fire ; 
Heard ye so itierry the little bird si fig ^ 
But like red-hot steel is the old man's ire, 
And the throstle-cock' s head is under his 
wing. 
The young man may brawl at the evening 
board ; 
Heard ye so merry the little bird sing ^ 
But the old man will draw at the dawning 
the sword. 
And the throstle-cock^ s head is tinder his 
wing. — Chrp. xiv. 



392 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



ST. SW/THIN'S CHAIR. 

On Hallow-Mass Eve. ere you boune ye to 

rest 
Ever beware that your couch be bless'd ", 
Sign it with cross, and sain it with bead, 
Sing the Ave, and say the Creed. 

For on Hallow-Mass Eve the Night-Hag 

will ride 
And all her nine-fold sweeping on by her 

side. 
Whether the wind sing lowly or loud, 
oailing through moonshine or swathed in 

the cloud. 

The Lady she sate in St. Swithin's Chair, 
The dew of the night has damp'd her hair : 
Her cheek was pale — but resolved and high 
Was the word of her lip and the glance of 
her eye. 

She mutter'd the spell of Swithin bold, 
When his naked foot traced the midnight 

wold, 
When he stopp'd the Hag as she rode the 

night, 
And bade her descend, and her promise 

plight. 

He that dare sit on St. Swithm's Chair, 
When the Night-Hag wings the troubled 

air, 
Questions three, when he speaks the spell, 
Ho may ask, and she must tell. 

The Baron has been with King Robert his 

liege 
These three long years in battle and siege ; 
News are there none of his weal or his woe, 
And fain the Lady his fate would know. 

She s'n udders and stops as the charm she 

speaks :-- 
Is it the moody owl that shrieks .'' 
Or IS that sound, betwixt laughter and 

scream, 
The voice of the Demon who haunts the 

stream I 

The moan of the wind sunk silent and low, 
And the roaring torrent had ceased to flow ; 
The calm was more dreadful than raging 

storm, 
Wlien the cold gray mist brought the ghastly 

fo.'iri I 



Chap. xiii. 



FLORA MACIVOR'S SONG. 

There is mist on the mountain, and night 

on the vale, 
But more dark is the sleep of the sons of 

the Gael, 
A stranger commanded — it sunk on the 

land, 
It has frozen each heart, and benumb'd 

every hand 1 

The dirk and the target lie sordid with dust, 

The bloodless claymore is but redden'd 
with rust ; 

On the hill or the glen if a gun should ap- 
pear, 

It is only to war with the heath-cock or 
deer. 

The deeds of our sires if our bards should 

rehearse, 
Let a blush or a blow be the meed of theii 

verse ! 
Be mute every string, and be hush'd every 

tone, 
That shall bid us remember the fame that 

is flown. 

But the dark hours of night and of slumber 

are past, 
The morn on our mountains is dawning at 

last! 
Glenaladale's peaks are illumed with the 

rays, 
And the streams of Glenfinnan leap bright 

in the blaze. 

O high-minded Moray 1 — the exiled — the 
dear ! — 

In the blush of the dawning the Standard 
uprear ! 

Wide, wide on the winds of the north let 
it fly. 

Like the sun's latest flash when the tem- 
pest is nigh ! 

Ye sons of the strong, when that dawning 
shall break. 

Need the harp of the aged remind you to 
wake ? 

That dawn never beam'd on your fore- 
father's eye. 

But it roused eacS high chieftain to van- 
quish or die. 

O sprung from the Kings who in Islay 

kept state, 
Proud chiefs of Clan-Ranald, Glengary, and 

Sleat ! 



[L 



c I 5 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



393 



Combine like three streams from one 

mountain of snow, 
And resistless in union rush down on the 

foe. 
True son of Sir Evan, undaunted Lochiel. 
Place thy targe on thy shoulder and burnish 

thy steel ! 
Rough Keppoch, give breath to thy bugle's 

ijold swell, 
Till far Coryarrich resound to the knell ! 

Stern son of Lord Kenneth, high chief of 
Kintail, 

Let the stag in thy standard bound wild in 
the gale ! 

May the race of Clan-Gillian, the fearless 
and free, 

Remember Glenlivat, Harlaw, and Dun- 
dee! 

Let the clan of Gray Fingon, whose off- 
spring has given 

Such heroes to earth, and such martyrs to 
heaven. 

Unite with the race of renown'd Rorri 
More, 

To launch the long galley and stretch to 
the oar 1 

How Mac-Shimei will joy when their chief 

shall display 
The yew-crested bonnet o'er tresses of 

gray ! 
How the race of wrong'd Alpine and 

murder'd Glencoe 
Shall shout for revenge when they pour 

on the foe ! 

Ye sons of brown Dermid, who slew the 

wild boar. 
Resume the pure faith of the great Callum- 

More ! 
Blac-Niel of the Islands, and Moy of the 

Lake, 
For honor, for freedom, for vengeance 

awake 1 

Awake on your hills, on your islands awake ! 
Brave sons of the mountain, the frith, and 

tlie lake ! 
'Tis the bugle — but not for the chase is the 

call ; 
'Tis the pibroch's shrill summons — but not 

to the hall. 

'Tis the summons of heroes for conquest or 
death, 

When the banners are blazing on moun- 
tain and heath ; 



They call to the dirk, the claymore, and 

the targe, 
To the march and the muster, the line and 

the charge. 
Be the brand of each chieftain like Fin's in 

his ire ! 
May the blood through his veins flow like 

currents of fire ! 
Biu'st the base foreign yoke as your sires 

did of yore ! 
Or die, like your sires, and endure it no 

more! — Chap. xxii. 

TO AN OAK TREE, 



In the Churchyard of ■■ 



■ , in the High- 



lands of Scotland^ said to mark the grave 

of Captain Wogan, killed in 1649, 
Emblem of England's ancient faith. 

Full proudly may thy branches wave. 
Where loyalty lies low in death. 

And valor fills a timeless grave. 

And thou, brave tenant of the tomb I 

Repine not if our clime deny, 
Above thine honor'd sod to bloom. 

The flowrets of a milder sky. 

These owe their birth to genial May ; 

Beneath a fiercer sun they pine. 
Before the winter storm deca}' — 

And can their worth be type of thine "i 
No ! for 'mid storms of Fate opposing. 

Still higher swell'd thy dauntless heart. 
And while Despair the scene was closing, 

Commenced thy brief but brilliant part. 

'Twas then thou sought'st on Albyn's hill 

(When England's sons the strife ra^ 
sign'd), 
A rugged race resisting still. 

And unsubdued though imrefined. 
Thy death's hour heard no kindred wail. 

No holy knell thy requiem rung ! 
Thy mourners were the plaided Gael, 

Thy dirge tlie clamorous pibroch sung. 
Yet who, m Fortune's summer-shine 

To waste life's longest term away. 
Would change tliat glorious dawn of thinej 

Though darken'd ere its noontide day ? 
Be thme the Tree whose dauntless boughs 

Brave summer's drouglit and winter's 
gloom 1 
Rome bound with oak her patriots' brows. 

As Albyn shadows Wogan's tomb. 

Chap. xxix. 




y 




394 



SCO TT'S FOE TIC A L WORKS. 



FAREWELL TO MACKENZIE, 

HIGH CHIEF OF KINTAIL. 

From the Gaelic. 
i8i;. 

The original verses are arranged to a beauti- 
ful Gaelic air, of which the chorus is adapted 
to the double pull upon the oars of a galley, 
and which is therefore distinct from the ordinary 
jorrams, or boat-songs. They were composed 
by the Family Bard upon the departure of the 
Earl of Seaforth, who was obliged to take 
refuge in Spain, after an unsuccessful effort at 
insurrection in favor of the Stuart family, in 
the year 171S. 

Farewell to Mackenneth, great Earl of 

the North, 
The Lord of Lochcarron, Glenshiel, and 

Seaforth , 
To the Chieftain this morning his course 

who be'^an, 
Launching fortii on the billows his brj'k 

like a swan. 
For a far foreign land he has hoisted his 

sail : 
Farewell to Mackenzie, High Chief of 

Kintail ! 

O swift be the galley, and hardy her crew. 
May her captain be skilful, her mariners 

true, 
In danger undaunted, unwearied by toil, 
Though the wliirlwind should rise, and the 

ocean should boil \ 
On the brave vessel's gunnel 1 drank his 

bonail,* 
And farewell to Mackenzie, High Chief of 

Kintail 1 

Awake in thy chamber, thou sweet south- 
land gale f 

Like the sighs of his people, breathe soft 
on his sail ; 

Be prolong'd as regret, that his vassals 
must know. 

Be fair as their faith, and sincere as their 
woe : 

Be so soft, and so fair, and so faithful, 
sweet gale. 

Wafting onward Mackenzie, High Chief of 
Kintail I 

Be his pilot experienced, and trusty, and 

wise. 
To measure the seas and to study the skies ■ 



* Bonail, or Ronailez, the old Scottish phrase 
for a feast at parting with a friend. 



May he hoist all his canvas from streamer 

to deck. 
But O! crowd it higher when wafting him 

back — • 
Till the cliffs of Skooroora, and Conan's 

glad vale, 
Shall welcome Mackenzie, High Chief of 

Kintail ! 



WAR-SONG OF LACHLAN 

HIGH CHIEF OF MACLEAN. 

From the Gaelic. 
1S15. 
This song appears to be imperfect, or, at 
least, like many of the early Gaelic poems, 
makes a rapid transition from one subject to 
another ; from the situation, namely, of one 
of tlie daughters of the clan, who oj^eiis the 
song by lamenting the absence of her lover, to 
an eulogium over the military glories of the 
Chieftain. The translator has endeavored to 
imitate the abrupt style of the original. 

A WEARY month has wander'd o'er 

Since last we parted on the shore ; 

Heaven ! that I saw thee, Love, once more, 

Safe on that shore again ! — 
Twas valiant Lachlan gave the word : 
Lachlan, of many a galley lord; 
He call'd his kindred bands on board, 

And launch'd them on the main. 

Clan-Gillian is to ocean gone, 
Clan-Gillian, fierce in foray known; 
Rejoicing in the glory won 

In many a bloody broil : 
For wide is heard the thundering fray. 
The rout, the rum, the dismay, 
When from the twilight glens away 

Glan-Gillian drives the spoil. 

Woe to the hills that shall rebound 

Our banner"d bag-pipes' maddening sound : 

Clan-Gillian's onset echoing round, 

Shall shake their inmost cell. 
Woe to the bark whose crew shall gaze, 
Where Lachlan's silken streamer plays ! 
The fools might face the lightning's blaze 

As wisely and as well I 



SAINT CLOUD. 
Parts, ■~,th September, 1S15. 
Soft spread the southern summer nigh 
Her veil of darksome blue : 





"Night and morning were at meeting 
Over Waterloo." — Page 395. 





MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



395 



Then thousand stars combined to light 
The terrace of Saint Cloud. 

The evening breezes gently sigh'd, 

Like breath of lover true, 
Bewailing the deserted pride 

And wreck of sweet Saint Cloud. 

The drum's deep roll was heard afar, 

The bugle wildly blew 
Good-night to Hulan and Hussar, 

That garrison Saint Cloud. 

The startled Naiads from the shade 

With broken urns withdrew, 
And silenced was that proud cascade, 

The glory of Saint Cloud. 

We sate upon its steps of stone, 

Nor could its silence rue, 
When waked to music of our own. 

The echoes of Saint Cloud. 

Slow Seine might hear each lovely note 

Fall light as summer dew, 
While through the moonless air they float, 

Prolong'd from fair Saint Cloud. 

And sure a melody more sweet 

His waters never knew. 
Though music's self was wont to meet 

With Princes at Saint Cloud. 

Nor then, with more delighted ear. 

The circle round her drew, 
Than ours, when gather'd round to hear 

Our songstress at Saint Cloud. 

Few happy hours poor morrals pass, — 
Then give those hours their due. 

And rank among the foremost class 
Our evenings at Saint Cloud. 



THE DANCE OF DEATH. 

1815. 



Night and morning were at meeting 

Over Waterloo ; 
Cocks had sung their earliest greeting ; 

Faint and low they crew, 
For no palv beam vet shone 
On the heights of Mount Saint John ; 
Tempest-clouds prolong'd the sway 
Of timeless darkness over day ; 
Whirlwind, thunder-clap, and shower, 
Mark'd it a predestined hour. 
Broad and frequent through the night 
Flashed the sheets of levin-light; 



Muskets, glancing lightnings back, 
Show'd the dreary bivouac 

Where the soldier lay, 
Chill and stiff, and drench'd with rain, 
Wishing dawn of morn again, 

Though death should come with day. 



'Tis at such a tide and hour. 
Wizard, witch, and fiend have power, 
And ghastly forms through mist and 
shower 

Gleam on the gifted ken ; 
And then the affrighted prophet's ear 
Drinks whispers strange of fate and fear 
Presagmg death and ruin near 

Among the sons of men ; — 
Apart from Albyn's war-array, 
'Twas then gray Allan sleepless lay; 
Gray Allan, who, for many a day, 

Had follow'd stout and stern. 
Where, through battle's rout and reel, 
Storm of shot and hedge of steel. 
Led the grandson of Lochiel, 

Valiant Fassiefern. 
Through steel and shot he leads no more, 
Low laid 'mid friends' and foemen's gore — 
But long his native lake's wild shore, 
And Sunart rough and high Ardgower, 

And Morven long shall tell. 
And proud Bennevis hear with awe, 
How, upon bloody Quatre-Bras, 
Brave Cameron heard the wild hurra 

Of conquest as he fell. 



'Lone on the outskirts of the host, 

The weary sentinel held post, 

And heard, through darkness far aloof. 

Where held a cloak'd patrol their course, 

And spurr'd 'gainst storm the swerving 

horse ; 
But there are sounds in Allan's ear, 
Patrol nor sentinel may hear. 
And sights before his eye aghast 
Invisible to them have pass'd. 

When down the destined plain, 
'Twixt Britain and the bands of France, 
Wild as marsh-born meteor's glance. 
Strange phantoms wheel'd a revel dance, 

And doom'd the future slain. — 
Such forms were seen, such sounds were 

heard 
When Scotland's James his march pre- 
pared 

For Flodden's fatal plain ; 




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96 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 


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ich, when he drew his ruthless sword. 


VI. 




As Choosers of the Slain, adored 








The yet unchristen'd Dane. 


Wheel the wild dance ! 






An indistinct and phantom band, 


While lightnings glance, *^ ^ 






They wheel'd their ring-dance hand in 


And thunders rattle loud, 






hand, 


And call the brave 






With gestures wild and dread ; 


To bloody grave. 






The Seer, who watch'd them ride the storm, 


To sleep without a shroud. 






Saw through their faint and shadowy form 
The lightning's flash more red ; 


Sons of the Spear ! 






And still their ghastly roundelay 


You feel us near 






Was of the coming battle-fray. 


In many a ghastly dream ; 






And of tlie destined dead. 


With fancy's eye 
Our forms you spy. 






IV. 


And hear our fatal scream. 
With clearer sight 






Song. 


Ere falls the night. 






Wheel the wild dance 


Just when to weal or woe 






While lightnings glance. 


Your disembodied souls take flight 






.A.nd thunders rattle loud. 


On trembling wing — each startled sprite 






And call the brave 


Our choir of death shall know. 






To bloody grave, 








To sleep without a shroud. 


VII. 






Our airy feet, 
So light and fleet, 


Wheel the wild dance 
While lightnmgs glance, 






They do not bend the rye 


And thunders rattle loud, 






That sinks its head when whirlwinds 


And call the brave 






rave, 


To bloody grave, 






And swells again in eddying wave, 


To sleep without a shroud. 






As each wild gust blows by ; 








But still the corn ; 


Burst, ye clouds, in tempest showers. 






At dawn of morn. 


Redder rain shall soon be ours— 






Our fatal steps that bore. 


See the east grows wan — 






At eve lies waste, 


Yield we place to sterner game. 






A trampled paste 

Of blackening mud and gore. 


Ere deadlier bolts and direr flame 






Shall the welkin's thundery shame ; 








Elemental rage is tame 






V. 


To the wrath of man. 






Wheel the wild dance 








While lightnings glance. 


VIII. 






And thunders rattle loud, 
And call the brave 
To bloody grave, 

To sleep without a shroud. 


At morn, gray Allan's mates with awe 
Heard of the vision'd sights he saw. 

The legend heard him say ; 
But the Seer's gifted eye was dim. 






Wheel the wild dance ! 


Deafen 'd his ear, and stark his limb. 






Brave sons of France, 


Ere closed that bloody day — 






For you our ring makes room ; 


He sleeps far from his Highland heath, 






Make space full wide 


But often of the Dance of Death 






For martial pride, 


His comrades tell the tale, 






For banner, spear, and plume. 


On picquet-post, when ebbs the night, 






Approach, draw near, 


And waning watch-fires glow less bright, 






Tp, Proud Cuirassier ! 


And dawn is glimmering pale 






Room for the men of steel ! 


1 r 






Through crest and plate 
The broadsword's weight 












Both head and heart shall feel. 










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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



397 



ROMANCE OF DUNOIS.* 

FROM THE FRENCH. 
1815. 

The original of this little Romance makes 
part of a manuscript collection of French Songs 
(probably compiled by some young officer), 
which was found on the field of Waterloo, so 
much stained with clay and blood, as sufficiently 
io indicate the fate of its late owner. The song 
is popular in France, and is rather a good 
specimen of the style of composition to which it 
belongs. The translation is strictly literal. 

It was Dunois, the young and brave, was 

bound for Palestine, 
But first he made his orisons before St. 

Mary's shrine : 
"And grant, immortal Queen of Heaven," 

was still the Soldier's prayer, 
" That I may prove the bravest knight, and 

love the fairest fair." 

His oath of honor on the shrine he graved 
it with his sword, 

And follow'd to the Holy Land the banner 
of his Lord ; 

Where, faithful to his noble vow, his war- 
cry fill'd the air, 

" Be honor'd aye the bravest knight, beloved 
the fairest fair." 

They owed the conquest to his arm, and 

then his Liege-Lord said, 
" The heart that has for honor beat by bliss 

must be repaid. — 
My daughter Isabel and thou shall be a 

wedded pair. 
For thou art bravest of the brave, she fairest 

of the fair." 

And then they bound the holy knot before 
Saint Mary's shrine. 

That makes a paradise on earth, if hearts 
and hands combine ; 

And every lord and lady bright, that were 
in chapel there. 

Cried " Honor'd be the bravest knight, be- 
loved the fairest fair." 

* " Partant pour la Syrie" was written and 
the air composed by Queen Hortense of Hol- 
land, the daughter of Josephine, and the mother 
of Napoleon III. It has become the national 
air of France. 



THE TROUBADOUR. 

FROM THE SAME COLLECTION. 

Also Composed and Written by Queen 

Hortense. 

1815. 

Glowing with love, on firs for fame, 1 

A Troubadour that hated sorrow. 
Beneath his Lady's window came, 

And thus he sung his last good-morrow ; 
'• My arm it is my country's right. 

My heart is in my true-love's bower; 
Gayly for love and fame to fight 

Befits the gallant Troubadour." 

And while he march'd with helm on head 

And harp in hand, the descant rung, 
As, faithful to his favorite maid. 

The minstrel-burden still he sung : 
" My arm it is my country's right, 

My heart is in my lady's bower ; 
Resolved for love and fame to fight, 

I come a gallanc Troubadour." 

Even when the battle-roar was deep. 

With dauntless heart he hew'd his way, 
Mid splintering lance and falchion-sweep, 

And still vk'as heard his warrior lay ; 
" My life it is my country's right, 

My heart is in my lady's bower; 
For love to die, for fame to fight, 

Becomes the valiant Troubadour." 

Alas ! upon the bloody field 

He fell beneath the foeman's glaive, 
But still reclining on his shield. 

Expiring sung the exulting stave : 
" My life it is my country's right. 

My heart is in my lady's bower ; 
For love and fame to fall in fight 

Becomes the valiant Troubadour. 



FROM THE FRENCH, 

1S15. 

It chanced that Cupid on a season, 
By Fancy urged, resolved to wed. 

But could not settle whether Reason 
Or Folly should partake his bed. 

What does he then ? — Upon my life, 
'Twas bad example for a deity — 

He takes me Keason for a wife. 
And Folly for his hours of gayety- 



'W 



39S 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Though thus he dealt in petty treason, 
He loved them both in equal measure ; 

Fidelity was born of Reason, 

And Folly brought to bed of Pleasure. 



SONG. 

On the lifting of the ban tier of the House 
of Biicclc2tch, at a great foot-ball match 
on Carter hazigh. 

1S15 

From the brown crest of Newark its sum- 
mons extending, 
Our signal is waving in smoke and in 
fiame ; 
And each forester blithe, from his mountain 
descending, 
Bounds light o'er the heather to join in 
the game. 

CHCRUS. 

Then up with the Banner, let forest winds 
fa7i her, 
She has blazed over Ettyick eight ages 
and 7nore ; 
In sport weHl attend her, in battle defetid 
her, 
With heart and with hand, like our 
fathers before. 

When the Southern invader spread waste 
and disorder. 
At the glance of her crescents he paused 
and withdrew, 
For around them were marshalPd the pride 
of the Border, 
The Flowers of the Forest, tlie bands of 

BUCCLEUCH. 

Then up with the Banner, &c. 

A Stripling's weak hand to our revel has 
borne her. 
No mail-glove has grasp'd her, no spear- 
men surroimd ; 
But ere a bold foeman should scathe or 
should scorn her, 
A thousand true hearts would be cold on 
the ground. 

Then up with the Banner, &c. 

We forget each contention of civil dissen- 
sion. 
And hail, like our brethren, Home, 
Douglas, and Car : 

And Elliot and Pringle in pastime shall 
mingle, 



As welcome in peace as tiieir fathers in 
war. 

Then up with the Banner, &c. 

Then strip, lads, and to it, though sharp be 
the weather. 
And if, by mischance, you should happen 
to tall, 
There are worse things in life than a tumble 
on heather, 
And life is itself but a game at foot-ball. 
Then up with the Banner, &c. 

And when it is over, we'll drink a blithe 
measure 
To each Laird and each Lady that wit- 
ness'd our fun. 
And to every blithe heart that took part in 
our pleasure, 
To the lads that have lost and the lads 
that have won. 

Then up with the Banner, &c. 

May the Forest still flourish, both Borough 
and Landward, 
From the hall of the Peer to the Herd's 
ingle-nook ; 
And huzza ! my brave hearts, for Buc- 
CLEUCH and his standard, 
For the King and the Country, the Clan 
and the Duke ! 

Then up with the Banner, let forest winds 
fan her, 
She has blazed over Ettrick eight ages 
and more ; 
In sport we'll attend her, in battle defend 
her. 
With heart and with hand, like our 
fathers before. 



LULLABY OF AN INFANT CHIEF 
Air — Cadul gu lo. 

1S15. 



O, HUSH thee, my babie, thy sire was a 

knight. 
Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright ; 
The woods and the glens, from the towers 

which we see, 
They are all belonging, dear babie, to thee. 
O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo, 
ho ro. i ri ri, &c. 



I 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



399 



O, fear not the bugle, though loudly it 

dIows, 
It calls but the warders that guard thy 

repose ; 
Their bows would be bended, their blades 

would be red. 
Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy 

bed. 

O ho ro, iri ri, &c. 



0, hush thee, my babie, the time soon will 

come, 
When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet 

and drum ; 
Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while 

you may. 
For strife comes with manhood, and waking 

with day. 

O ho ro, i ri ri, &c. 



^0ngs of Ultg ptrrilics. 

FROM GUY MANNERING. 
1S15. 

"TWIST YE, TWINE YE." 

Twist ye, twine ye ! even so, 
Mingle shades of joy and woe, 
Hope, and fear, and peace, and strife, 
In the thread of human life. 

While the mystic twist is spinning, 
And the infant's life beginning, 
Dimly seen through twilight bending, 
Lo, what varied shapes attending ! 

Passions wild, and follies vain. 
Pleasures soon exchanged for pain ; 
Doubt, and jealousy, and fear, 
In the magic dance appear. 

Now they wax, and now they dwindle, 
Whirling with the whirling spindle. 
Twist ye, twine ye ! even so, 
Mingle human bliss and woe. 

Vol. I, Chap. iii. 

THE DYING GYPSY'S DIRGE. 

Wasted, weary, wherefore stay, 
Wrestling thus with earth and clay ? 
from the body pass away ; — 

Hark 1 the mass is singing. 



From thee doff thy mortal weed, 

Mary Mother be thy speed, 
Saints to help thee at thy need ; — 

Hark ! the knell is ringing. 

Fear not snow-drift driving fast, 
Sleet, or hail, or levin blast ; 
Soon' the shroud shall lap thee fast, 
And the sleep be on thee cast 

That shall ne'er know waking. 

Haste thee, haste thee, to be gone. 
Earth flits fast, and time draws on, — 
Gasp thy gasp, and groan thy groan. 
Day is near the breaking. 



THE RETURN TO ULSTER. 
t8i6. 

Once again, — but how changed since my 
wand'rings began, — 

I have heard the deep voice of the Lagan 
and Bann, 

And the pines of Clanbrassil resound to the 
roar 

That wearies the echoes of fair Tullamore. 

Alas ! my poor bosom, and why shouldst 
thou burn ? 

With the scenes of my youth can its rap- 
tures return ? 

Can I live the dear life of delusion again, 

That flow'd when these echoes first mix'd 
with my strain 1 

It was then that around me, though poor 

and unknown. 
High spells of m3'sterious enchantment were 

thrown ; 
The streams were of silver, of diamond the 

dew, 
The land was an Eden, for fancy was new. 
I had heard of our bards, and my soul was 

on fire 
At the rush of their verse, and the sweep of 

their lyre : 
To me 'twas not legend, nor tale to the 

ear. 
But a vision of noontide, distinguish'd and 

clear. 

Ultonia's old heroes awoke at the call. 
And renew'd the wild pomp of the chase and 

the hall ; 
And the standard of Fion flash' d fierce from 

on high, 
Like a burst ot the sun when the tempest is 

nigh. 





400 



SCOTT'S TOETJCAL WORKS. 



It seem'd that the harp of green Erin once 

more 
Could renew all the glories s'le boasted of 

yore. — 
Yet why at remembrance, fond heart, 

should'st thou burn ? 
They were days of delusion and cannot 

return. 

But was she, too, a phantom, the Maid who 

stood by. 
And listed my lay, while she turn'd from 

mine eye.'' 
Was she, too, a vision, just glancing to view. 
Then dispersed in the sunbeam, or melted to 

dew ? 
Oh ! would it had been so, — Oh ! would that 

her eye, 
Had been but a star-glance that shot through 

the sky. 
And her voice that was moulded to melody's 

tlirill, 
Had been but a zephyr, that sigh'd and was 

still ! 

Oh ! would it had been so,— not then this 

poor heart 
Had learn'd the sad lesson, to love and to 

part ; 
To bear, unassisted, its burthen of care, 
While I toil'd for the wealth 1 had no one to 

share. 
Not then had I said, when life's summer 

was done, 
And the hours of her autumn were fast 

speeding on, 
" Take the fame and the riches ye brought 

in your train, 
And restore me the dream of my spring- 
tide again." 



JOCK OF HAZELDEAN. 

Air — A Border Melody. 

1816. 

The first stanza of this ballad is ancient. The 
others were written for Mr. Campbell's Albyn's 
Anthology. 

t. 

" Why weep ye by the tide, ladie? 

Why weep ye by the tide ? 
I'll wed ye tn my youngest son. 

And ye sail be his bride. 
And ye sail be his bride, ladie, 

Sae comely to be seen " — 



But aye she loot the tears down fa' 
For Jock of Hazeldean. 

II. 

" Now let this wilfu' grief be done, 

And dry that cheek so pale ; 
Young Frank is chief of Errington, 

And lord of Langley-dale ; 
His step is first in peaceful ha', 

His sword in battle keen " 

But aye she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 



" A chain of gold ye sail not lack, 

Nor braid to bind your hair ; 
Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk , 

Nor palfrey fresh and fair ; 
And you, the foremost o' them a', 

Shall ride our forest queen " — 
But aye she loot tjie tears down fa' 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide. 

The tapers g'immer'd fair ; 
The priest and bridegroom wait the bride, 

And dame and knight are there. 
They sought her baith by bower and ha' ; 

The ladie was not seen ! 
She's o'er the Border, and awa' 

Wi' Jock of Hazeldean. 



PIBROCH OF DONALD DHU.* 



AlR. 



'■ Piobair of Don nil Dkiiidk." 
1816. 



Tliis is a very ancient pibroch belonging to 
Clan Macdonald, and supposed to refer to the 
expedition of Donald Balloch, who, in 1431, 
launched from the Isles with a considerable 
force, invaded Lochaber, and at Inverlochy 
defeated and put to flight the Earls of Mar and 
Caithness, thr.ugh at the head of an army 
superior to his own. Tlie words of the set. 
theme, or melody, to which the pipe variations 
are applied, run thus in Gaelic : — 

Piobaireachd Dhonuil Dhuidh, piobaireaciid 

Dhonuil 
Piobaireachd Dhonuil Dhuidh, piobaireachd 

Dhonuil ; 
Piobaireachd Dhonuil Dhuidh, piobaireachd 

Dhonuil ; 
Piob agus bratach air faiche Inverlochi. 
The pipe-summons of Donald the black, 
The pipe-summons of Donald the Black, 



* Dku—the Black. 







MISCELLAXEOUS POEMS. 



401 



The war-pipe and tlie pennca are on the 
gathering place at Inverlochy. 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 

Pibroch of Donuil, 
Wake thy voice anew, 

Summon Clan-Conuil. 
Come away, come away. 

Hark to the summons { 
Come in your war array, 

Gentles and commons. 

Come from your deep glen, and 

From mountain so rocky, 
The war-pipe and pennon 

Are at Inverlochy. 
Come every hill-plaid, and 

True heart that wears one, 
Come every steel blade, and 

Strong hand that bears one. 

Leave untended tlie herd, 

The flock without slielter; 
Leave tlie corpse uninterr'd. 

The bride at the altar ; 
Leave the deer, leave the steer, 

Leave nets and barges : 
Come with your fightinsr gear, 

Broadswords and targes. 

Come as the winds come, when 

Forests are rended, 
Come as the waves come, when 

Navies are stranded : 
Faster come, faster come, 

Faster and faster, 
Chief, vassal, page and groom, 

Tenant and master. 
Fast they come, fast they come ; 

See how they gatlier ! 
Wide waves the eagle plume. 

Blended with heather. 
Cast your plaids, draw your blades. 

Forward each man set ! 
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 

Knell for the onset ! 



NORA'S VOW. 
AiR--C/;a teid mis a chaoidh* 

WRITTE>f FOR ALBYN'S ANTHOLOGY. 
1S16. 

In the origina. Gaelic, the Ladv makes prc- 
teBtaUons that sl;e will not go with tlie Red 
1:^1 s son, until the swan should build in the 
dlff, and the eagle in the lake — until one 

• " I wiJl never go with hira." 

7.e 




mountain should change place with another 
and so forth. It is but fair to add, that there 
IS no authority for supposing that she altered 
her mind -except the vehemence of her pro- 
testation. 

I. 
Hear what Highland Nora said— 
" The Earlie's son I will not wed, 
Should all the race of nature die, 
And none be left but he and I. 
For all the gold, for all the gear, 
And all the lands both far and near, 
That ever valor lost or won, 
I would not wed the Earlie's son." 

II. 
" A maiden's vows," old Galium spoke, 
" Are lightly made and lightly broke ; 
The heather on the mountain's height 
Begins to bloom in purple light ; 
The frost-wind soon shall sweep away 
Tliat lustre deep from glen and brae ; 
Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone, 
May blithely wed the Earlie's son."— 

III. 
"The swan," she said, 

breast 

May barter for the eagle's nest ; 
The Awe's fierce stream may backward 

turn, 
Ben-Cruaichan fall, and crush Kilchurn: 
Our kilted clans, when blood is high, 
Before their foes may turn and fly ; 
But I, were all these marvels done, 
Would never wed the Earlie's son." 

IV. 

Still in the water-lilv's shade 

Her wonted nest the wild-swan made ; 

Ben-Cruaichan stands as fast as ever, 

Still downward foams the Awe's fierce river ; 

To shun the clash of foeman's steel. 

No Highland brogue has turn'd the heel ; 

But Nora's heart is lost and won, 

—She's wedded to the Earlie's son ! 



■ the lake's clear 



MACGREGOR'S GATHERING. 
A.iR—Thain^ a Grigalach* 

WRITTEN FOR ALBYN'S ANTHOLOGY. 

1S16. 
These verses are adapted to a very wild, 
yet lively gathering-tune, used by the Mac 
Gregors. The severe treatment of this Clan, 
their outlawry, and the proscription of their 
very name, are alluded to in j.he Ballad. 
• " Tlie MacGregor is come." 




402 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The moon's on the lake, and the mist's on 

the brae, 
And the Clan has a name that is nameless 
by day ; 
Then gather, gather, gather, Grigalach I 
Gather, gather, gather, &c. 

Our signal for fight, that from monarchs we 

drew, 
list be heard but by night in our vengeful 

haloo ! 
Then haloo, Grigalach ! haloo, Grigalach ! 
Haloo, haloo, haloo, Grigalach, &c. 

Glen Orchy's proud mountains, Coalchuirn 

and her towers, 
Glenstrae and Glenlyon no longer are 
ours ; 
We're landless, landless, landless, Griga- 
lach ! 
Landless, landless, landless, &c. 

But doom'd and devoted by vassal and 

lord, 
Macgregor has still both his heart and his 
sword ! 
Then courage, courage, courage, Griga- 
lach I 
Courage, courage, courage, &c. 

If they rob us of name, and pursue us with 

beagles. 
Give their roofs to the flame, and their flesh 
to the eagles! 
Then vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, 

Grigalach ! 
Vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, &c. 

While there's leaves in the forest, and foam 

on the river, 
Macgregor, despite them, shall flourish for 
ever! 
Come then, Grigalach, come then, Griga- 
lach, 
Come then, come then, come then, &c. 

Through the depths of Loch Katrine the 

steed shall career, 
O'er the peak of Ben-Lomond the galley 

shall steer, 
And the rocks of Craig-Royston like icicles 

melt. 
Ere our wrongs be forgot, or our vengeance 

unfelt ! 
Then gather, gather, gather, Grigalach ! 
Gather, gather, gather, &c. 



<r^ 



VERSES. 

COMPOSED FOR THE OCCASION, ADAPTED 
TO HAYDN'S AIR, 

*' God Save the Emperor Francis^'' 

AND SUNG BY A SELECT BAND AFTER 

THE DINNER GIVEN BY THE LORD 

PROVOST OF EDINBURGH TO THE 

GRAND-DUKE NICHOLAS OF RUSSIA 

AND HIS SUITE. 
I9TH DECEMBER 1S16. 

GoD protect brave Alexander, 

Heaven defend the noble Czar, 
Mighty Russia's high Commander, 

First in Europe's banded war 1 
For the realms he did deliver 

From the tyrant overthrown, 
Thou, of every good the Giver, 

Grant him long to bless his own ! 
Bless him, 'mid his land's disaster, 

For her riglits who battled brave, 
Of the land of foemen master. 

Bless him who their wrongs forgave \ 

O'er his just resentment victor, 

Victor over Europe's foes. 
Late and long supreme director, 

Grant in peace his reign may close 1 
Hail ! then, hail ! illustrious stranger 1 

Welcome to our mountain strand ! 
Mutual interests, hopes, and danger, 

Link us with thy native land. 
Freemen's force, or false beguiling, 

Shall that union ne'er divide, 
Hand m hand while peace is smiling, 

And in battle side by side. 



•Sougs from l^c ^nliquHra» 
1S16. 

TIME. 

" Why sit'st thou by that ruin'd hall, 
Thou aged carle so stern and gray? 

Dost thou its former pride recall. 
Or ponder how it pass'd away ! " — 

" Know'st thou not me ! " the Deep Voice 
cried ; 

" So long enjoy'd, so oft misused — 
Alternate, in thy fickle pride, 

Desired, neglected, and accused ! 





MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 



403 



•' Before my breath, like blazing flax, 

Man and his marvels pass away ! 
And changing empires wane and wax, 

Are founded, flourish, and decay. 
" Redeem mine hours — the space is brief — 

While in my glass the sand-grains shiver, 
And measureless thy joy or grief. 

When Time, and thou shalt part for 
ever 1 " — Chap. x. 



ELSPETH'S BALLAD. 

The herring loves the merry moon-light, 

The mackerel loves the wind. 
But the oyster loves the dredging sang, 

For they come of a gentle kind. 

Now haud your tongue, baith wile and 
carle, 

And listen great and sma', 
And I will sing of Glenallan's Earl 

That fought on the red Harlaw. 

The cronach's cried on Bennachie, 

And doun the Don and a', 
And hieland and lawland may mournfu* be 

For the sair field of Harlaw. 

They saddled a hundred milk-white steeds, 
They hae bridled a hundred black, 

With a chafron of steel on each horse's 
head, 
And a good knight upon his back. 

They hadna ridden a mile, a mile, 

A mile but barely ten, 
When Donald came branking down the 
brae 

Wi' twenty thousand men. 

Their tartans they were waving wide, 
Their glaives were glancing clear, 

The pibrochs rung frae side to side, 
Would deafen ye to hear. 

The great Earl in his stirrups stood. 

That Highland host to see : 
" Now here a knight that's stout and good 

May prove a jeopardie • 
"What would'st thou do, my squire so 
gay, 

That rides beside my reyne. — 
Were ye (Henallan's Earl the day, 

And I wer Roland Cheyne ? 

" To turn the rein were sin and shame, 
To fight were wondrous peril, — ■ 

What would ye do now, Roland Cheyne, 
Were ye Glenallan's Earl 1 " — 



" Were I Glenallan's Earl this tide, 

And ye were Roland Cheyne, 
The spur should be in my horses' side, 

And the bridle upon his mane. 

" If they hae twenty thousand blades, 

And we twice ten times ten. 
Yet they hae but their tartan plaids. 

And we are mail-clad men. 

" My horse shall vide through ranks sae 
rude. 
As through tlie moorland fern, — 
Then ne'er let the gentle Norman blude 
Grow cauld for Highland kerne." 
****** 

He turn'd him right and round again, 

Said, Scorn na at my mither ; 
Light loves I may get mony a ane. 

But minnie ne'er anither. — Chap. xl. 



MOTTOES 



IN THE ANTIQUARY. 

I KNEW Anselmo. He was shrewd and 

prudent, 
Wisdom and cunning had their shares of 

him ; 
But he was shrewish as a wayward child. 
And pleased again by toys which childhood 

please ; 
As — book of fables graced with print of 

wood, 
Or else the jingling of a rusty medal. 
Or the rare melody of some old ditty, 
That first was sung to please King Pepin's 

cradle. 

CHAP. IX. 

" Be brave," she cried, " you yet may be 

our guest. 
Our haunted room was ever held the best : 
If, then, your valor can the fight sustain 
Of rustling curtains, and the clinking chain 
If your courageous tongue have powers to 

talk, 
When round your bed the horrid ghost 

shall walk, 
If you dare ask it why it leaves its tomb, 
I'll see your sheets well air'd, and show the 

room. — True Story. 



Sometimes he thinks that Heaven this 

vision sent, 
And order' d all the pageants as they went > 





404 



SCOTTS POETICAL WORKS. 



Sometimes that only 'twas wild Fancy's 

play,— 
The loose and scatter'd relics of the day. 

CHAP. XII. 

Beggar ! — the only freemen of your Com- 
monwealth ! 
Free above Scot-free, that observe no laws, 
Obey no governor, use no religion 
But what they draw from their own ancient 

customs, 
Or constitute themselves, yet they are no 
rebels. — Brovie. 

CHAP. XIX, 

Here has been such a stormy encounter, 
Betwixt my cousin Captain and this 

soldier, 
About I know not what — nothing, indeed ; 
Competitions, degrees, and comparatives 
Of soldiership ! — A Faire Quarrel. 

CHAP. XX. 

—If you fail honor here, 
Never presume to serve her any more; 
Bid farewell to the integrity of arms, 
And the honorable name of soldier 
Fall from you, like a shiver'd wreath of 

laurel 
By thunder struck from a desertlesse fore- 
head. — A Faire Quarrel. 

CHAP. XXI. 

The Lord Abbot had a soul 

Subtile and quick, and searching as the 

fire : 
By magic stairs he went as deep as hell. 
And if in devils' possession gold be kept, 
He brought some sure from thence — 'tis 

hid in caves. 
Known, save to me, to none. 

The Wonder of a Kingdome. 

CHAP, xxvii. 

Many great ones 

Would part with lialf their states, to have 

the plan 
And credit to beg in the first style. 

Beggar' s Bush. 

CHAP. XXX. 

Who is he ? — One that for the lack of land 
Shall fight upon the water — he hath chal- 
lenged 
Formerly the grand whale ; and by his 
titles 



Of Leviathan, Behemoth, and so forth. 
He tilted with a sword-fish — Marry, sir, 
Th' aquatic had the best — the argument 
Still galls our champion's breech. 

Old Play. 

CHAP. XXXI, 

Tell me not of it, friend — when the young 

weep. 
Their tears are lukewarm brine ; — from our 

old eyes 
Sorrow falls down like hail-drops of the 

North, 
Chilling the furrows of our wither'd cheeks 
Cold as our hopes, and harden'd as our 

feeling — 
Theirs, as they fall, sink sightless — ours 

recoil, 
Heap the fair plain, and bleaken all before 

\is.— Old Play. 

CHAP. XXXIII. 

Remorse — she ne'er forsakes us !— 

A bloodhound stanch — she tracks our rapid 

step 
Through the wild labyrinth of }-outhful 

frenzy, 
Unheard, perchance, until old age hath 

tamed us ; 
Then in our lair, when Time hath chill'd 

our joints, 
And rnaim'd our hope of combat, or of 

flight, 
We hear her deep-mouth 'd bay, announcing 

all 
Of wrath and woe and punishment that bides 

us.— Old Play. 

CHAP. XXXIV. 

Still in his dead hand clench'd remain the 

strings 
That thrill his father's heart — e'en as the 

limb, 
Lopp'd off and laid in grave, retains, they 

tell us. 
Strange commerce with the mutilated 

stump, 
Whose nerves are twinging still in rnaim'd 

existence. — Old Play. 

CHAP. X.XXV. 

Life, with you. 

Glows in the brain and dances in the 

arteries ; 
'Tis like the wine some joyous guest hath 

quaff'd, 
That glads the heart and elevates the 

fancy ; — 



/^ 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



405 



Mine is the poor residuum of the cup, 
Vapid, and dull, and tasteless, only soilins; 
With its base dregs the vessel that contains 
' \<i.—Old Play. 

CHAP. XXXVII. 

Yes ! I love Justice well — as well as you 

do— 
But, siace the good dame's blind, she shall 

excuse me, 
If, time and reason fitting, I prove dumb ; — 
The breath I utter now shall be no means 
To take away froni me my breath in 

future.— OA/ Play. 

CHAP. XXXVIII. 

Well, well, at worst, 'tis neither theft nor 

coinage. 
Granting I knew all that you charge me 

with. 
What, tho' the tomb hath borne a second 

birth. 
And given the wealth to one that knew not 

on't, 
Yet fair exchange was never robbery. 
Far less pure bounty. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XL. 

Life ebbs from such old age, unmark'd and 

silent. 
As the slow neap-tide leaves yon stranded 

galley- 
Late she rock'd merrily at the least impulse 
That wind or wave could give ; but now her 

keel 
Is settling on the sand, her mast has ta'en 
An angle with the sky, from which it shifts 

not. 
Each wave receding shakes her less and 

less, 
Till, bedded on the strand, she shall remain 
Useless as motionless. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XLI. 

So, while the Goose, of whom the fable 

told, 
Incumbent, brooded o'er her eggs of gold. 
With hand outstretch'd, impatient to de- 
stroy, 
Stole on her secret nest the cruel Boy, 
Whose gripe rapacious changed her splendid 

dream. 
For wings vain fluttering, and for dying 
scream. 

The Loves of the Sea- Weeds. 

CHAP. XLII. 

Let those go see who will — I like it not— 
For, say he was a slave to rank and pomp. 



And all the nothings he is now divorced 

from 
By the hard doom of stern necessity ; 
Yet is it sad to mark his alter'd brow. 
Where vanity adjusts her flimsy veil 
O'er the deep wrinkles of repentant An- 
guish.— OA/ Play. 

CHAP. XLIII. 

Fortune, you say, flies from us — She but 

circles, 
Like the fleet sea-bird round the fowler's 

skiff,— 
Lost in the mist one moment, and the next 
Brushing the white sail with her whiter wing, 
As if to court the aim. — Experience 

watches. 
And has her on the wheel. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XLIV 

Nay, if she love me not, I care not for her ; 
Shall I look pale because the maiden 

blooms ? 
Or sigh because she smiles — and smiles on 

others ? 
Not I, by Heaven ! — I hold my peace too 

dear. 
To let it, like the plume upon her cap, 
Shake at each nod that her caprice shall 

dictate.— 0/(/ Play. 



J^rom the ^latk ^faarf. 
1S16 

CHAP. XVI. 

'TwAS time and griefs 

That framed him thus : Time, with his 

fairer hand, 
Offering the fortunes of his former days, 
The former man may make him — Bring us 

to him. 
And chance it as it may. — Old Play. 



<|rom ©Itr Porlalrtg. 

1816. 

MAJOR BELLENDEN'S SONG. 

And what though winter still pinch severe 
Through locks of gray and a cloak that's 
old, 

Yet keep up thy heart, bold cavalier, 
For a cup of sack shall fence the cold. 



4o5 



SCO TT 'S POE TIC A L WORKS. 



For time will rust the brightest blade, 

And years will break the strongest bow ; 
Was never wight so starkly made, 
But time and years would overthrow ! 
Chap. xix. 
♦ 

VERSES FOUND IN BOTHWELL'S 
POCKET-BOOK. 

Thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright, 
As in that well-remember'd night, 
When first thy mystic braid was wove, 
And first my Agnes whisper'd love. 

Since then how often hast thou press'd 
The torrid zone of this wild breast, 
Whose wrath and hate have sworn to dwell 
With the first sin vk-hich peopled hell. 
A breast whose blood's a troubled ocean. 
Each throb the earthquake's wild commo- 
tion ! — 
O, if such clime thou canst endure, 
Yet keep thy hue unstain'd and pure. 
What conquest o'er each erring thought 
Of that fierce realm had Agnes wrought ! 
I had not wander'd wild and wide, 
With such an angel for my guide ; 
Nor heaven nor earth could then reprove 

me. 
If she had lived, and lived to love me. 

Not then this world's wild joys had been 
To me one savage hunting scene. 
My sole delight the headlong race, 
And frantic hurry of the chase ; 
To start, pursue, and bring to bay, 
Rush in, drag down, and rend my prey. 
Then — from the carcass turn away ! 
Mine ireful mood had sweetness tamed. 
And soothed each wound which pride in- 
flamed ! 
Yes, God and man might now approve me. 
If thou hadst lived, and lived to love me. 
Chap, xxiii. 
♦ 

MOTTOES 

FROM OLD MORT.^LITY. 
CHAP. XIV. 

My hounds may a' rin masterless. 
My hawks may fly frae tree to tree, 

My lord may grip my vassal lands. 
For there again maun I never be ! 

Old Ballad. 

CHAP, XXXIV. 

Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife ! 
To all the sensual world proclaim, 



One crowded hour of glorious life 
Is worth an age without a name. 

Aiwnymoin, 



THE SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS 

OR, THE QUEST OF SULTAUN SOLIMAUN, 

1S17. 

I. 



Oh for a glance of that gay Muse's eye. 
That lighten'd on Bandello's laushu 



tale. 



hmg 



And twinkled with a lustre shrewd and sly, 
When Giam Battista bade her vision 

hail !— 
Yet fear not, ladies, the na'ivc detail 
Given by the natives of that land ca- 
norous ; 
Italian license loves to leap the pale. 
We Britons have the fear of shame be- 
fore us. 
And, if not wise in mirth, at least must be 
decorous. 

II. 
In the far eastern clime, no great while 

since. 
Lived Sultaun Solimaun, a mighty prince. 
Whose eyes, as oft as they perform 'd their 

round. 
Beheld all others fix'd upon the ground : 
Whose ears received the same unvaried 

phrase, 
" Sultaun ! thy vassal hears, and he obeys !" 
All have their tastes — this may the fancy 

strike 
Of such grave folks as pomp and grandeur 

like; 
For me, I love the honest heart and warm 
Of Monarch who can amble round his farm, 
Or, when the toil of state no more annoys, 
In chimney-corner seek domestic joys — 
I love a prince will bid the bottle pass. 
Exchanging with his subjects glance and 

glass ; 
In fitting time, can, gayest of the gay. 
Keep up the jest, and mingle in the lay — 
Such Monarchs best our Iree-born hu- 
mors suit. 
But Despots must be stately, stern and 
mute. 

III. 
This Solimaun, Serendib had in sway — 
And Where's Serendib? may some critio 
say.— 




MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



407 



Good lack, mine honest friend, consult the 
chart, 

Scare not my Pegasus before 1 start ! 

If Rennell has it not, you'll find, mayhap, 

The isle laid down in Captain Sinbad's 
map, — 

Famed mariner 1 whose merciless narra- 
tions 

Drove every friend and kinsman out of 
patience, 

Till, fain to find a guest who thought them 
shorter, 

He deign'd to tell them over to a porter — 

The last edition see, by Long. & Co., 

Rees, Hurst, and Orme, our fathers in the 
Row. 

IV, 

Serendib found, deem not my tale a fic- 
tion — 
This Sultaun, whether lacking contradic- 
tion — 
(A sort of stimulant which hath its uses, 
To raise the spirits and reform the juices, 
— Sovereign specific for all sorts of cures 
In my wife's practice, and perhaps in 

yours), 
The Sultaun lacking this same wholesome 

bitter, 
Or cordial smooth for prince's palate 

fitter— 
Or if some Mollah had hag-rid his dreams 
With Degial, Ginnistan, and such wild 

themes 
Belonging to the Mollah's subtle craft, 
I wot not — but the Sultaun never laugh'd. 
Scarce ate or drank, and took a melancholy. 
That scorn'd all remedy — profane or holy ; 
In his long list of melancholies, mad. 
Or mazed, or dumb, hath Burton none so 
bad.* 



Physicians soon arrived, sage, ware, and 

tried. 
As e'er scrawl'd jargon in a darken'd 

room ; 
With heedful glance the Sultaun's tongue 

they eyed, 
Peep'd in his bath, and God knows where 

beside. 
And then in solemn accent spoke their 

doom. 

" His Majesty is very far from well." 
Then each to work with his specific fell : 



* See Burton, Anatomy 0/ Melancholy. 



The Hakim Ibrahim iKstanter brought 
His unguent Mahazzim al Zerdukkaut, 
While Roompot, a practitioner more wily. 
Relied on his Munaskif al fillfily. 
More and yet more in deep array appear, 
And some the front assail, and some the 

rear ; 
Their remedies to reinforce and vary, 
Came surgeon eke, and eke apothecary ; 
Till the tired Monarch, though of words 

grown chary. 
Vet dropt, to recompense their fruitless 

labor. 
Some hint about a bowstring or a sabre. 
There lack'd, I promise you, no longer 

speeches 
To rid the palace of those learned leeches. 



Then was the council call'd — by their ad- 
vice 
(They deem'd the matter tickhsh all, and 
nice. 
And sought to shift it off from their own 
shoulders), 
Tartars and couriers in all speed were sent. 
To call a sort of Eastern Parliament 

Of feudatory chieftains and freeholders — 
Such have the Persians at this very day. 
My gallant Malcolm calls them cou- 

roultai , — 
I'm not prepared to show in this slight song 
That to Serendib the same forms belong, — 
E'en let the learn'd go search, and tell me 
if I'm wrong. 



The Omrahs, each with hand on cimetar. 
Gave, like Sempronms, still their voice fof 

war — 
" The sabre of the Sultaun in its sheath 
Too long has slept, nor own'd the work of 

death ; 
Let the Tambourgi bid his signal rattle. 
Bang the loud gong, and raise the shout 

of battle ! 
This dreary cloud that dims our sove 

reign's day, 
Shall from his kindled bosom flit away. 
When the bold Lootie wheels his courser 

round. 
And the arm'd elephant shall shake the 

ground. 
Each noble pants to own tlie glorious 

summons — 
And for the charges — Lo! your faithful 

Commons ! " 







4o8 



SCOTT'S POETICAL IVOR AS. 



The Riots who attended in their places 
(Serendib )anguage calls a farmer Riot) 

Look'd ruefully in one another's faces, 
From this oration auguring much dis- 
quiet, 

Double assessment, forage, and free quar- 
ters; 

And fearing these as China-men the Tar- 
tars, 

Or as the whisker'd vermin fear the 
mousers, 

Each fumbled in the pocket of his trowsers. 

VIII. 

And next came forth the reverend Convo- 
cation, 
Bald heads, white beards, and many a 

turban green, 
Imaum and Mollah there of every station, 
Santon, Fakir, and Calendar were 

seen. 
Their votes were various — some advised a 

Mosque 
With fitting revenues should be erected, 
With seemly gardens and with gay 

Kiosque, 
To recreate a band of priests selected ; 
Others opined that through the realms a 

dole 
Be made to holy men, whose prayers 

might profit 
The Sultaun's weal in body and in soul. 
But their long-headed Chief, the Sheik 

Ul-Sofit, 
More closely touch'd the point : — " Thy 

studious mood," 
Quoth he, " O Prince ! hath thicken'd all 

thy blood. 
And dull'd thy brain with labor beyond 

measure ; 
Wherefore relax a space and take thy 

pleasure. 
And toy with beauty, or tell o'er thy 

treasure ; 
From all the cares of state, my Liege, 

enlarge thee. 
And leave the burden to thy faithful 

clergy." 

IX. 

These counsels sage availed not a whit. 
And so the patient (as is not uncom- 
mon 
Where gra^e physicians lose their time 
and wit) 
Resolved to take advice of an old 
woman ; 



His mother she, a dame who once was 

beauteous. 
And still was call'd so by each subject 

duteous. 
Now, whether Fatima was witch in earnest, 

Or only made believe, I cannot say — 
But she profess'd to cure disease the 

sternest. 
By dint of magic amulet or lay ; 
And, when all other skill in vain was shown, 
She deem'd it fitting time to use her own. 



" Sympathla magica hath wonders done " 
(Thus did old Fatima bespeak her son), 
" It works upon the fibres and the pores. 
And thus, insensibly, our health restores, 
And it must help us here. — Thou must en- 
dure 
The ill, my son, or travel for the cure. 
Search land and sea, and get where'er you 

can. 
The inmost vesture of a happy man, 
I mean his shirt, my son ; which, taken 

warm 
And fresh from off his back, shall chase 

your harm. 
Bid every current of your veins rejoice. 
And your dull heart leap light as shepherd- 
boy's." 
Such was the counsel from his mother 

came ; — 
I know not if she had some under-game, 
As Doctors have, who bid their patients 

roam 
And live abroad, when sure to die at home ; 
Or if she thought, that, somehow or another 
Queen-Regent sounded better than Queen. 

Mother ; 
But, says the Chronicle (who will go look 

it), 
That such was her advice — the Sultaua 
took it. 

XI. 

All are on board — the Sultaun and his 
train, 

In gilded galley prompt to plough the main. 
The old Rais * was the first who ques- 
tion'd, " Whither ? " 

They paused — " Arabia," thought the pen- 
sive Prince, 



* Sea captain. 





<r^ 



a 



AIISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



409 



"Was cali'd the Happy many ages since — 
For Mokha, Rais." — And they came safely 

thither. 
But not in Araby, with all her balm, 
Not where Judea weeps beneath her palm, 
Not in rich Egypt, not in Nubian waste, 
Could there the step of happiness be traced. 
One Copt alone profess'd to have seen her 

smile, 
When Bruce his goblet fill'd at infant Nile : 
She bless'd the dauntless traveller as he 

quaff'd, 
But vanish'd from him with the ended 

draught. 



" Enough of turbans," said the weary 

King, 
"These dolimans of ours are not the 

thing ; 
Try we the Giaours, these men of coat and 

cap, I 
Incline to think some of them must be 

happy ; 
At least, they have as fair a cause as any 

can. 
They drink good wine and keep no Ram- 

azan. 
Then northward, ho ! " — The vessel cuts'* 

the sea, 
And fair Italia lies upon her lee. — 
But fair Italia, she who once unfurl'd 
Hy eagle banners o'er a conquer'd world, 
Long from her throne of domination 

tumbled, 
Lay, by her quondam vassals, sorely 

humbled ; 
The Pope himself look'd pensive, pale, and 

lean, 
.A.nd was not half the man he once had 

been. 
" While these the priest and those the noble 

fleeces. 
Our poor old boot," they said, "is torn to 

pieces. 
Its tops the vengeful claws of Austria feel. 
And the Great Devil is rending toe and 

heel 
If happiness you seek, to tell you truly. 
We think she dwells with one Giovanni 

BulH ; 
A tramontane, a heretic, — tlie buck, 
Poffaredio ! still has all the luck ; 
By land or ocean never strikes his flag — ' 
And then — a perfect walking money-bag." \ 



Off set our Prince to seek John Bull's 

abode, 
But first took France — it lay upon the 

road. 



Monsieur Baboon, after much late commo- 
tion. 
Was agitated like a settling ocean. 
Quite out of sorts, and could not tell what 

ail'd him, 
Only the glory of his house liad fail'd 

him ; 
Besides some tumors on his noddle 

biding, 
Gave indication of a recent hiding 
Our Prince, though Sultauns of such things 

are heedless. 
Thought it a thnig indelicate and needless 

To ask, if at tiiat moment he was happy. 
And Monsieur, seeing that he was comme il 

faut, a 
Loud voice muster'd up, for " Vive le Roi ! " 
Then whisper'd, " Ave you any news ot 
Nappy .? " 
The Sultaun answer'd him with a cross 
question, — 
" Pray, can you tell me aught of one John 
^ Bull, 

That dwells somewhere beyond your 
herring-pool .' " 
The query seem'd of difficult digestion. 
The party shrugg'd, and grinn'd, and took 

his snuff. 
And found his whole good-breeding scarce 
enough. 



Twitching his visage mto as many puckers 
As damsels wont to put into their tuckers 
{Ere liberal Fashion damn'd both lace and 

lawn, 
And bade the veil of modesty be drawn), 
Replied the Frenchman, after a brief 

pause, 
" Jean Bool ! — I vas not know him — Yes, I 

vas — 
I vas remember dat, von year or two, 
I saw him at von place cali'd Vaterloo — 
Ma foi ! il s'est tres jolinient battu, 
Dat is for Englishman, — m'entendezvous } 
But den he had wit him one damn son-gun. 
Rogue I no like — dey call him Vellington." 
Monsieur's politeness could not hide liis 

fret. 
So Solimaun took leave, and cross'd the 

strait. 



^ 




4IO 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



John Buil was in his very worst of moods, 
Raving of sterile farms and unsold goods ; 
His sugar-loaves and bales about he threw, 
And on his counter beat the devil's tattoo. 
His wars were ended, and the victory won, 
But then, 'twas reckoning-day with honest 

John ; 
And authors vouch, 'twas still this Worthy's 

way, 
" Never to grumble till he came to pay ; 
And then he always thinks, his temper's 

such. 
The work too little and the pay too much." 
Yet, grumbler as he is, so kind and 

hearty. 
That when his mortal foe was on the floor. 
And past the power to harm his quiet more. 
Poor John had well nigh wept for Bona- 
parte ! 
Such was the wight whom Solimaun 

salam'd, — 
" And who are you," John answer'd, " and 

d— d!" 



" A stranger, come to see the happiest 
man, — 

So, signior, all avouch, — in Frangistan." — 

" Happy ? my tenants breaking on my 
hand ; 

Unstock'd my pastures, and untill'd my 
land ; 

Sugar and rum a drug, and mice and moths 

The sole consumers of my good broad- 
cloths — 

Happy ? — Why, cursed war and racking 
tax 

Have left us scarcely raiment to our 
backs." — 

In that case, signior, I may take my leave ; 

I came to ask a favor — but I grieve " 

" Favor ? " said John, and eyed the Sultaun 
hard, 

" Its my belief you come to break the 
yard ! — 

But, stay, you look like some poor foreign 
sinner, — 

Take that to buy yourself a shirt and din- 
ner." — 

With that he chuck'd a guinea at his head ; 

But, with due dignity, the Sultaun said, 

" Permit me, sir, your bounty to decline ; 

A shirt indeed I seek, but none of thine. 



Signior, I kiss your hands, so fare you 

well."— 
" Kiss and be d — d," quoth John, " and go 

to hell ! ■' 

XVII. 

Next door to John there dwelt his sister 

Peg, 
Once a wild lass as ever shook a leg 
When the blithe bagpipe blew — but, soberer 

now, 
She doiicely span her flax and milk'd her 

cow. 
And whereas erst she was a needy slattern. 
Nor now of wealth or cleanliness a pattern, 
Yet once a-month her house was partly 

swept. 
And once a-week a plenteous board she 

kept, 
And whereas, eke, the vixen used her 

claws 
And teeth, of yore, on slender provoca- 
tion. 
She now was grown amenable to laws, 

A quiet soul as any in the nation ; 
The sole remembrance of her warlike joys 
Was in old songs she sang to please her 

boys. 
John Bull, whom, in their years of early 

strife. 
She wont to lead a cat-and-doggish life. 
Now found the woman, as he said, a 

neigiibor, 
Who look'd to the main chance, declined no 

labor, 
Loved a long grace, and spoke a northern 

jargon, 
And was d — d close in making of a bar- 
gain. 

XVIII. 

The Sultaun enter'd, and he made his leg, 
And with decorum curtsv'd sister Peg. 
(She loved a book, and knew a thing or 

two, 
And guess'd at once with whom she had to 

do.) 
She bade him " Sit into the fire," and took 
Her dram, her cake, her kebbuck from the 

nook ; 
Ask'd him " about the news from Eastern 

parts ; 
And of her absent bairns, puir Highland 

hearts ! 
If peace brought down the price of tea and 

pepper. 
And if the nUntegs were grown ony 

cheaper ; — 





MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



411 



Were there nae speerings of our Mungo 

Park — 
Ye '11 be the gentleman that wants the sark ! 
If ye wad buy a web o' auld wife's spinnin', 
I'll warrant ye it's a weel-wearing linen." 



Then up got Peg, and round the house 

'gan scuttle 
In search of goods her customer to nail, 
Until the Sultaun strain'd his princely 

throttle, 
And hollo'd — " Ma'am that is not what 

Jail. 
Pray, are you happy, ma'am, in this snug 

glen ? " 
" Happy ? " said Peg ; " What for d'ye want 

to ken ? 
Besides, just think upon this by-gane year. 
Grain wadna pay the yoking of the 

pleugh." — 
'■'■ What say you to the present ? " — " Meal's 

sae dear. 
To mak' their brosc my bairns have 

scarce aneugh." — 
" The devil take the shirt," said Solimaun, 
" I think my quest will end as it began. — 
Farewell, ma'am ; nay, no ceremony, I 

beg " 

" Ye'll no be for the linen then ? " said Peg. 



Now, for the land of verdant Erin, 

The Sultaun's royal bark is steering. 

The Emerald Isle, where honest Paddy 

dwells, 
The cousin of John Bull, as story tells. 
For a long space had John, with words of 

thunder, 
Hard looks, and harder knocks, kept Paddy 

under. 
Till the poor lad, like boy that's fiogg'd 

unduly, 
Had gotten somewhat restive and unruly. 
Hard was his lot and lodging, you'll allow, 
A wigwam that would hardly serve a sow ; 
His landlord, and of middle-men two 

brace, 
Had screw'd his rent up to the starving- 
place ; 
His garment was a top coat, and an old 

one. 
His meal was a potato, and a cold one ; 
But still for fun or frolic, and all that. 
In all the round world was not the match of 

Pat. 



The Sultaun saw him on a holiday. 
Which is with Paddy still a jolly day ; 
When mass is ended, and his load of sins 
Confess'd, and Mother Church hath from 

her binns 
Dealt forth a bonus of imputed merit. 
Then is Pat's time for fancy, whim, and 

spirit ! 
To jest, to sing, to caper fair and free. 
And dance as light as leaf upon the tree. 
" By Mahomet," said Sultaun Solimaun, 
" That ragged fellow is our very man ! 
Rush in and seize him — do not do him 

hurt, 
But, will he nill he, let me have his shirts — 



Shilela their plan was well-nigh after baulk- 
ing 

(Much less provocation will set it a walk- 
ing), 

But the odds that foil'd Hercules foil'd 
Paddy Whack ; 

They seiz'd and they floor'd and they 
stripp'd him — Alack ! 

Up-bubboo ! Paddy had not a shirt to 

his back ! ! ! 

And the King, disappointed, with sorrow 
and shame, 

Went back to Serendib as sad as he came. 



THE SUN UPON THE WEIRDLAW 

HILL. 

1S17. 

The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill, 

In Ettrick's vale, is sinking sweet ; 
The westland wind is hush and still, 

The lake lies sleeping at my feet. 
Yet not the landscape to mine eye 

Bears those bright hues that once it 
bore ; 
Though evening, with her richest dye. 

Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore. 

With listless look along the plain, 

I see Tweed's silver current glide, 
And coldly mark the holy fane. 

Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride. 
The quiet lake, the balmy air. 

The hill, the stream, the tower, the 
tree, — 
Are they still such as once they were ? 

Or is the dreary change in me .'' 




lA 



412 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Alas, the warp'd and broken board, 

How can it bear the painter's dye ! 
The harp of strain'd and tuneless chord, 

How to the minstrel's skill reply ! 
To aching eyes each landscape lowers, 

To feverish pulse each gale blows chill ; 
And Araby's or Eden's bowers 

Were barren as this moorland hill. 



THE MONKS OF BANGOR'S 

MARCH. 

Air — " Ynidaith Miojige." 

WRITTEN FOR MR. GEORGE THOMSON'S 

WELSH MELODIES. 

1817. 

Ethelfrid or Olfrid, King of North- 
umberland, having besieged Chester in 613, 
and Brockmael, a British Prince, advanc- 
ing to relieve it, the religious of the neigh- 
bormg Monastery of Bangor marched in 
procession to pray for the success of their 
countrymen. But the British being totally 
defeated, the heathen victor put the monks 
to the sword, and destroyed tlieir monastery. 
The tune to which these verses are adapted 
is called the Monks' March, and is supposed 
to have been played at their ill-omened pro- 
cession. 

When the heathen trumpet's clang 
Round beleaguer'd Chester rang, 
Veiled nun and friar gray 
March'd from Bangor's fair Abbaye : 
High their holy anthem sounds, 
Cestria's vale the hymn rebounds, 
Floating down the sylvan Dee, 

O miserere, Domine ' 
On the long procession goes, 
Glory round their crosses glows, 
And the Virgin-motiier mild, 
In their peaceful banner smiled : 
Who could think such saintly band 
Doom'd to feel unhallow'd hand ? 
Such was the Divine decree, 

O miserere, Domine ! 
Bands that masses only sung, 
Hands that censers only swung, 
Met the northern bow and bill, 
Heard the war-cry wild and shrill : 
Woe to Brockmael's feeble hand, 
Woe to Olfrid's bloody brand, 
Woe to Saxon cruelty, 

O miserere, Domitie ! 
Weltering amid warriors slain, 
Spurn'd by steeds with bloody mane, 




Slaughter'd down by heathen blade, 
Bangor's peaceful monks are laid ; 
Word of parting rest unspoke. 
Mass unsung, and bread unbroke ; 
For their souls for charity. 

Sing, O miserere, Domine '. 

Bangor ! o'er the murder wail 1 
Long thy ruins told the tale ; 
Shatter'd tower and broken arch 
Long recall'd the woeful march : * 
On thy shrine no tapers burn, 
Never shall thy priests return ; 
The pilgrim sighs, and sings for thee ; 

O miserere, Domine ! 



f&.aiiQt% from Bob Hog. 

CHAP. X. 

In the wide pile, by others heeded not. 

Hers was one sacred solitary spot. 

Whose gloomy aisles and bending shelves 

contain. 
For moral hunger food, and cures for moral 

pain — Anony>noiis. 

CHAP. XIII. 

Dire was his thought, who first in poison 

steep'd 
The weapon form'd for slaughter — direr 

his. 
And worthier of damnation, who instill'd 
The mortal venom in the social cup. 
To fill the veins with death instead of life. 

— Anonymous. 

CHAP. XXII. 

Look round thee, young Astolpho : Here's 

the place 
Which men (for being poor) are sent to 

starve in, — 
Rude remedy, I trow, for sore disease. 
Within these walls, stifled by damp and 

stench. 
Doth Hope's fair torch expire : and at the 

snuff, 
Ere yet 'tis quite extinct, rude, wild, and 

wayward. 
The desperate revelries of wild despair, 
Kindling their hell-born cressets, light to 

deeds. 



* In William of Malmsbury's time the ruins 
of Bangor still attested the cruelty of the 
1 Northumbrians. 




1 




/TT — 


M ' .. . ' rl 


- ^ 




/A 


<• •* <m i i) 


-4V 




y. 




K ^ 


' 






MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 418 






That the poor captive would have died ere 


Disdams the ease his generous lord assigns 




practised, 


And longs to rush on tlie embattled Imes, 






Till bondage sunk his soul to his condi- 


So I, your plauthts rmging on mine ear, 






tion. — T/ie Prison, Scene iii. Aci i. 


Can scarce sustain to thmk our partmg ^ ^ 


' 




• 


near ; 






CHAP. X-XVII. 


To think my scenic hour forever past. 






Far as the eye could reach no tree was 


And that these valued plaudits are my last. 






seen, 


Why should we part, while still some 






Earth, clad in russet, scorn'd the lively 


powers remain. 






green ; 


That in your service strive not yet is 






No birds, except as birds of passage, flew ; 


vain ? 






No bee was heard to him, no dove to coo ; 


Cannot high zeal the strength of yout 






No streams, as amber smooth, as amber 


supply, 






clear, 


And sense of duty fire the fading eye ; 






Were seen to glide, or heard to warble 


And all the wrongs of age remain subdued 






here. — Prophecy of Famine. 


Beneath the burning glow of gratitude? 
Ah no !— the taper, wearing to its close. 






CHAP. XXXI. 


Oft for a space in fitful lustre glows ; 






" Woe to the vanquish'd ! '' was stern 


But all too soon the transient gleam is 






Brenno's word. 


past — 






When sunk proud Rome beneath the 


It cannot be renew'd, and will not last; 






Gallic sword— 


Even duty, zeal, and gratitude, cah wage 






" Woe to the vanquish'd ! " when his 


But short-lived conflict with the frosts of 






massive blade 


age. 






Bore down the scale against her ransom 


Yes ! it were poor, remembering what I 






weigh' d. 


was, 






And on the field of fougbten battle still, 


To live a pensioner on your applause, 






Who knows no limit save the victor's 


To drain the dregs of your endurance dry. 






will. — 77^1? GaiiUiad. 


And take, as alms, the praise I once could 

buy; 
Till eveiy sneering youth around inquires, 






CHAP. XXXII. 






And be he safe restored ere evening set. 


" Is this the man who once could please 






Or, if there's vengeance in an injured hear 


our sires ? " 






And power to wreck it in an armed hand, 


And scorn assumes compassion's doubtful 






Your land shall ache for \.—Old Play. 


mien. 
To warn me off from the encumber'd scene. 






CHAP. XXXVI. 


This must not be ; — and higher duties 






Farewell to the land where the clouds love 


crave 






to rest. 


Some space between the theatre and the 






Like the shroud of the dead on the moun- 


grave. 
That, like the Roman in the Capitol. 






tain's cold breast ; 






To the cataract's roar where the eagles 


I may adlust my mantle ere I fall ; 






reply. 


My life's brief act in public service flown, 






And the lake her lone bosom expands to 


The last the closing scene, must be my 








the sky. 


own. 

Here, then, adieu ! while yet some well 
graced parts 




MR. KEMBLE'S FAREWELL 




ADDRESS, 


May fix an ancient favorite in your hearts, 






ON TAKING LEAVE OF THE EDINBURGH 


Not quite to be torgotten, even when 






STAGE. 
1S17. 


You look on better actors, younger men : 






And if your bosoms own this kindly debt 






Of old remembrance, how shall mine for- „ 


■% 




As the worn war-horse, at the trumpet's 


get— 






sound. 


0, how forget ! — how oft I hither came 






Erects his mane, and neighs, and paws the 


In anxious hope, how oft return'd with 






ground — 


famel 






X 




J1 


3 

1 

r 


v' ^ 


<>• 1 •> <" . ( " 


5 


- >V 






\^ •- 






i^ 


(, 1 ^ c 


. 






1 




414 



SCOTT'S POETICAL \vORKS 



How oft around your circle tliis weak hand 
Has waved immortal Shakspeare's magic 

wand, 
Till the full burst of inspiration came, 
And I have felt, and you have fann'd the 

flame ! 
By mem'ry treasured, while her reign en- 
dures, 
Tliose hours must live— and all their charms 

are yours. 
O favor' d Land, renown'd for arts and 

arms, 
Foi manly talent, and for female charms. 
Could this full bosom pionipt the sinking 

line. 
What fervent benedictions now were thine ! 
But my last part is play'd, my knell is rung. 
When e'en your praise falls faltering from 

my tongue ; 
And ail that you can hear, or I can tell. 
Is — Friends and Patrons, hail ! and Fake 

VOU WELL ! 



LINES, 

WRITTEN FOR MISS SMITH. 
18.7. 

When the lone pilgrim views afar 
The shrine that is his guiding star, 
With awe his footsteps print the road 
Which the loved saint of yore has trod. 
As near he draws, and yet more near, 
His dim eye sparkles with a tear ; 
Tlie Gothic fane's unwonted show, 
The choral hymn, the taper's glow, 
Oppress his soul ; while they delight 
And chasten rapture with affright. 
No longer dare he think his toil 
Can merit aught his patron's smile ; 
Too light appears the distant way, 
The chilly eve, the sultry day- 
All these endured no favor claim, 
But murmuring forth the sainted name, 
He lays his little offering down. 
And only deprecates a frown. 

We, too, who ply the Thespian art, 
Oft feel such bodings of the heart, 
And. when our utmost powers are strain'd, 
Dare hardly hope your favor gain'd. 
She, who from sister climes has sought 
The ancient land where Wallace fought — 
Land long renown'd for arms and arts, 
And conquering eyes and dauntless 
hearts- 



She, as the flutterings here avow, 
Feels all the pilgrim's terrors nou, ; 
Yet sure on Caledonian plain 
The stranger never sued in vain. 
'Tis yours the hospitable task 
To give the applause she dare not ask ; 
And they who bid the pilgrim speed, 
The pilgrim's blessing be their meed. 



^mm% 



TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF BUCCLEUCH, 
DRUML.^NRIG CASTLE. 

Sanquhar, 2 o'clock, July 30, 1817. 
From Ross, where the clouds on Benlomond 

are sleeping^ 
From Greenock, where Clyde to the Ocean 

is sweeping — 
From Largs, where the Scotch gave the 

Northmen a drilling — 
From .\rdrossan, whose harbor cost many 

a shilling — 
From Old Cumnock where beds are as hard 

as a plank, sir — 
From a chop and green pease, and a chicken 

in Sanquhar, 
This eve, please the fates, at Drumlanrig we 

anchor. W. S. 

[Sir Walter's companion on this excursion 
was Captain, now Sir Adam Ferguson. — See 
Li/e, vol. v., p. 234.1 



(from |vob |lojr. 
1S17. 

(I.)— TO THE MEMORY OF ED- 
WARD THE BLACK PRINCE. 

" A blotted piece of paper dropped out of the 
book, and being taken up by my father, he in- 
terrupted a hint from Owen, on the propriety 
of securing loose memoranda witli a little paste, 
by e.\claimmg, * To the memory of Edward tlie 
Black Prince— What's all this ?— verses ! — By 
Heaven, Frank, you are a greater blockliead 
than I supposed you!' " 

O for the voice of that wild horn, 
On Fontarabian echoes borne, 

The dying hero's call, 
That told imperial Charlemagne, 
How Paynim sons of swarthy Spain, 

liad wrought his champion's fall, 

" ' Fon/aradian echoes ! ' continued my 
father, interrupting himself ; ' the Fontarabian 





MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



415 



Fair would have been more to the purpose. — 
Payniin ? — What's Paymim ? — Could you not 
say Pagan as well, and wnle English, at least, 
if you must needs write nonsense.' " 

Sad over earth and ocean sounding 

And England's distant cliffs astounding 

Such are the notes should say 
How Britain's hope, and France's fear 
Victor of Cressy and Poitier. 

In Bourdeaux dying lay. 

" ' Poitiers, by the way, is always spelled with 
an s, and I know no reason why orthography 
should give place to rhyme.' " 

" Raise my faint head, my squires," he 

said, 
" And let the casement be display'd, 

That I may see once more 
Tiie splendor of the setting sun 
Gie:.m ou thy mirror'd wave, Garonne, 

And Blaye's empurpled shore." 

' ' <7«r£7««if and j7<« is a bad rliyme^ Why, 
Frank, you do not even understand the beggarly 
trade you have chosen.' " 

" Like me, he sinks to Glory's sleep, 
His tall the dews of evening steep, 

As if in sorrow .shed. 
So soft shall fall the trickling tear, 
When England's maids and matrons hear 

Of their Black Edward dead. 

" ' And though my sun of glory set, 
Nor France nor England shall torget 

The terror of my name ; 
And oft shall Britain's heroes rise, 
New planets m these southern skies, 

Through clouds of blood and flame." 

" 'A cloud of flame is something new— Good- 
morrow, my masters all, and a merry Christmas 
to you '. — Why, the bellman writes better 
lines.' " Ch<^p- li. 



Led on by Agramant, their youthful king — 
He whom revenge and hasty ire did brmg 
O'ei the broad wave, m France to waste 
and wai ; 
Such ills from old Trojano's death did 
spring. 
Which to avenge he came from realms 
afar. 
And menaced Christian Charles, the Roman 

Emperor. 
Of dauntless Roland, too, my strain shall 
soimd, 
In import never known in prose and 
rhyme. 
How He, the chief of judgment deem'd pro- 
found. 
For luckless love was crazed upon a 
time — 

"'There is a great deal of it,' said she, 
glancing along the paper, and interrupting rhe 
sweetest sir.-.nds which mortal ears can drink ni ; 
those of a youthful poet's verses, namely, read 
by the lips which are dearest to them." 

Chap. XVI. 



(2.)— TRANSLATION FROM 

ARIOSTO. 

1817. 

"Miss Vernon proceeded to read the first 
stanza, which was nearly to the following pur- 
pose ; " — 

Ladies, and knights, and arms, and love's 
fair flame, 
Deeds of emprize and courtesy, I sins , 
What time the Moors from sultry Afnck 
cauie, 



EPILOGUE TO THE APPEAL. 

St?OKEN BY MRS. HENRY SIDDONS, 

Feb. 16, 181S. 

A CAT of }'ore (or else old yEsop lied) 
Was changed into a fair and blooming 

bride. 
But spied a mouse upon her marriage-day, 
Forgot her spouse, and seized upon her 

prey; 
Even thus my bridegroom lawyer, as you 

saw, 
Threw off poor me, and pounced upon 

papa. 
His neck from Hymen's mystic knot made 

loose. 
He twisted round my sire's the literal noose, 
Such are the fruits of our dramatic labor 
Since the New Jail became our next-door 

neighbor. 

Yes, timer, are changed ; for, in your fathers 

age. 
The lawyers were the patrons of the stage ; 
However high advanced by future fate, 
There stands the bench [points to the Pit 

that first received tlieiv weight. 
The future legal sage, 'twas ours to see. 
Doom though unwigg'd and plead withouf 

a fee. 






41 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



But now, astounding each poor mimic elf, 
Instead of lawyers comes the law herself ; 
Tremendous neighbor on our right she 

dwells, 
Builds high her towers and excavates her 

cells ; 
While on the left she agitates the town, 
With the tempestuous question, Up or 

down ? 
'Twixt Scylla and Charybdis thus stand we. 
Law's final end, and law's uncertainty. 
But soft ! who lives at Rome the Pope muts 

flatter. 
And jails and lawsuits are no jesting matter. 
Then — just farewell ! We wait with serious 

awe 
Till your applause or censure gives the law. 
Trusting our humble efforts may assure ye. 
We hold you Court and Counsel, Judge and 

Jury. 



MACKRIMMON'S LAMENT 

iSi8. 

Air — " Cha till mi tuille," 

Mackrimmon, hereditary piper to the Laird 
of Macleod, is said to have composed this 
Lament when the Clan was about to depart 
upon a distant and dangerous expedition. The 
IVIinstrel was impressed with a behef, which 
the event verified, that he was to be slaui in the 
approaching feud ; and hence the Gaelic words, 
" Cha till mi tnille ; ged thillis Macleod, cha 
till lilackritiiinon," " I shall never return ; al- 
though Macleod returns, yet Mackrimmon shall 
never return ! " The piece is but too well 
known, from its being the strain with which 
the emigrants from the West Highlands and 
Isles usually take leave of their native shore. 

MacLeod's wizard flag from the gray cas- 
tle sallies, 

The rowers are seated, unmoor'd are the 
galleys ; 

Gleam war-axe and broadsword, clang target 
and quiver, 

As Mackrimmon sings, " Farewell to Dun- 
vegan for ever ! 

Farewell to each cliff, on which breakers are 
foaming ; 

Farewell each dark glen, in which red-deer 
are roaming ; 

Farewell, lonely Skye, to lake, mountain, and 
river ; 

Macleod may return, but Mackrimmon shall 
never 1 



" Farewell the bright clouds that on Quillan 

are sleeping ; 
Farewell the bright eyes in the Dun that are 

weeping ; 
To each minstrel delusion, farewell i — and 

forever — 
Mackrimmon departs to return to you 

never ! 
The Banshee's wild voice sings the death- 
dirge before me. 
The pall of the dead for a mantle hangs o'er 

me ; 
But my heart shall not flag, and my nerves 

shall not shiver. 
Though devoted I go — to return again 

never ! 

" Too eft shall the notes of Mackrimmon's 

bcM'ailing 
Be heard when the Gael on their exile are 

sailing ; 
Dear land ! to the shores, whence unwilling 

we sever. 
Return — return — return shall we never ! 
Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille ! 
Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille, 
Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille, 
Ged thillis Macleod, cha till Mackrim. 
mon ! " 



DONALD CAIRO'S COME AGAIN. 

Air — " Malcolm Caird's come again^' 
iSiS. 

CHORUS. 

DoNAi,D Cairo's fo;«£r again ' 
Donald Caird's come agai?i ! 
Tell the news in britgh and glen. 
Donald Caird''s come again. 

Donald Caird can lilt and sing. 
Blithely dance the Highland fling, 
Drink till the gudeman be blind, 
Fleech till the gudewife be kind; 
Hoop a leglin, clout a pan. 
Or crack a pow wi' ony man ; 
Tell the news in brugh and glen, 
Donald Caird's come again. 

Donald Caird'' s come again ' 
Donald Caird's come again ' 
Tell the nexus in britgh and glen^ 
Donald Caird's come again. 
Donald Caird can wire a maukin, 
Kens the wiles o' dun-deer staukin', 





— I f I 5 

_l « — a 




MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



417 



Leisters kipper, makes a shift 

To shoot a niuir-fowl in the drift ; 

Water-bailiffs, rangers, keepers, 

He can waulc when they are sleepers ; 

Not for bountith or reward 

Dare ye mell wi' Donald Caird. 

Donald Caird' s come again ! 
Donald Caird^s come again .' 
Tell the news in brugli and glen, 
Donald Caird' s come again. 

Donald Caird can drink a gill 
Fast as hostler-wife can fill ; 
ilka ane that sells gude liquor 
Kens how Donald bends a bicker ; 
When he's fou he's stout and saucy, 
Keeps the cantle o' the cavvsey ; 
Hieland chief and Lawland laird 
Maun gie room to Donald Caird 1 

Donald Caird' s come again ' 
Donald Caird'' s come again ' 
Tell the news in brugh and glen, 
Donald Caird's come again. 

Steek the amrie, lock the kist. 
Else some gear may weel be mis't ; 
Donald Caird finds orra things 
Where Allan Gregor fand the tings ; 
Dunts of Kebbuck, taits o' woo. 
Whiles a hen and whiles a sow, 
Webs or duds frae hedge or yard — 
'Ware the wuddie, Donald Caird I 

Donald Caird'' s come again ' 
Donald Caird' s come again ' 
Dinna let the Shirr a ken 
Donald Caird's come again. 

On Donald Caird the doom was stern, 
Craig to tether, legs to airn, 
But Donald Caird, wi' mickle study, 
Caught the gift to cheat the wuddie; 
Rings of airn, and bolts of steel, 
Fell like ice frae hand and heel ! 
Watch the sheep in fauld and glen, 
Donald Caird's come again 1 

Donald Caird'' s come again .' 

Donald Caird's come again' 
Dinna let the Justice ken 
Donald Caird's come again. 



EPITAPH ON MRS. ERSKINE. 
1S19. 
Plain, as her native dignity of mind, 
^rise tlie tomb of her we have resign'd; 

27 




Unflaw'd and stainless be the marble scroll, 
Emblem of lovely form and candid soul. 
But, oh ! what symbol may avail, to tell 
The kindness, wit, and sense, we loved so 

well' 
What sculpture show the broken ties of life, 
Here buried with the parent, friend and 

wife 1 
Or on the tablet stamp each title dear, 
By which thine urn, Euphemia, claims the 

tear ! 
Yet taught, by thy meek sufferance, to 

assume 
Patience in anguish, hope beyond the tomb, 
Resign'd, though sad, this votive verse shall 

flow. 
And brief, alas ! as thy brief span below. 



(from tlje pearl of Ipiiir-ITot^ian. 



MADGE WILDFIRE'S SONGS, 

When the gledd's in the blue cloud, 

The lavrock lies still ; 
When the hound's in the green-wood^ 

The hind keeps the hill. 



sleep ye sound, Sir James, she said. 
When ye suld rise and ride? 

There's twenty men, wi' bow and blade, 
Are seeking where ye hide. 



Hey for cavaliers, ho for cavaliers, 

Dub a dub, dub a dub ; 

Have at old Beelzebub, — 
Oliver's running for fear. — 



I glance like the wildfire through country 

and town ; 
I'm seen on the causeway — I'm seen on the 

down ; 
The lightning that flashes so bright and so 

free, 
Is scarcely so blithe or so bonny as me. 



What did ye wi' the bridal ring— bridal ring 

— bridal ring '! 
What did ye wi' your wedding ring, ye little 

cutty quean, O ? 
I gied it till a sodger, a sodger, a sodger, 
I gied it tiJl a sodger, an auld true love of 

mine, O. 



i 




^^ 



4xa 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORK'S. 



Good even, good fair moon, good even to 

thee ; 
I prithee, dear moon, now show to me 
The form and the features, the speech and 

degree, 
Of the man that true lover of mine shall be. 

It is tiie bonny butcher lad. 
That wears the sleeves of blue, 

He sells the flesh on Saturday, 
On Friday that he slew. 



Tliere's a bloodhound ranging Tinwald 
Wood, 

There's harness glancmg sheen ; 
There's a maiden sits on Tinwald brae. 

And she sings loud between. 



Up in the air, 

On my bonnie gray mare. 

And I see, and I see, and I see her yet. 



In the bonnie cells of Bedlam, 

Ere I was ane and twenty, 
I had hempen bracelets strong, 
And merry virhips, ding-dong, 
And prayers and fasting plenty. 



My banes are buried in yon kirk-yard 

Sae far ayont the sea, 
And it is but my blithesome ghaist 

That's speaking now to thee. 



I'm Madge of the country, I'm Madge of 

the town. 
And I'm Madge of the lad I am blithest to 

own — 
The Lady of Beever in diamonds may shine. 
But has not a heart half so lightsome as 

mine. 



I am Queen of the Wake, and I'm Lady of 
May. 

And I lead the blithe ring round the May- 
pole to-day ; 

The wild-fire that flashes so fair and sofre« 

Was never so bright or so bonnie as me. 



Our work is over — over now. 
The goodman wipes his weary brow. 
The last long wain wends slow away, 
And we are free to sport and play. 

The night comes on when sets the sun, 
And labor ends when day is done. 



When .Autumn's gone, and Winter's come, 
We hold our iovial harvest-home. 

When the fight of grace is fought, — 
When the marriage vest is wrought, — 
When Faith has chased cold Doubt away,- 
And hope but sickens at delay, — 

When Charity, miprison'd here, 
Longs for a more expanded sphere ; 
Doff thy robe of sin and clay ; 
Christian, rise, and come away. 



Cauld is my bed. Lord Archibald, 
And sad my sleep of sorrow : 

But thine sail be as sad and cauld, 
My fause true-love ! to-mon-ow. 

And weep ye not, my maidens free, 
Though death your mistress borrow ; 

For he for whom I die to-day, 
Shall die for me to-morrow. 



Proud Maisie is in the wood, 

Walking so early ; 
Sweet Robin sits on the bush, 

Singing so rarely. 

" Tell me, thou bonny bird, 
When shall I marry me ! " — 

" When six braw gentlemen 
Kirkward shall carry ye." 

" Who makes the bridal bed, 

Birdie, say truly ? " — 
'• The gray-headed sexton 

That delves the grave duly. 

" The glow-worm o'er grave and stone 

Shall light thee steady. 
The owl from the steeple sing, 

' Welcome, proud lady.' " 



(from i\t §ribi; of ITammeimffm 
1819. , 

LUCY ASHTON'S SONG. 

Look not thou on beauty's charming, — 
Sit thou still when kings are arming,— 
Taste not when the wme-cup glistens,- - 
Speak not when tlie people listens, — 
Stop thme ear against the singer, — 
From the red gold keep thy finger, 
Vacant heart, and hand, and eye, _ 
Easy live and quiet diis.—Chap. iii' 



^ 



MISCELLANEOUS FOE MS. 



419 



NORMAN THE FORESTER'S SONG. 

The monk must arise when the matms 
ring, 
The abbot may sleep to their chime ; 
But the yeoman must start wlien the bugles 
sing, 
'Tis time, my heart, 'tis time. 

There's bucks and raes on Billhope braes, 

There's a herd on Shortwood Shaw ; 
But a lily white doe m the garden goes, 

She's fairly worth them a'. — Chap. iii. 

MOTTOES. 

CHAP. XIV. 

As, to the Autumn breeze's bugle-sound, 
Various and vague the dry leaves dance their 

round ; 
Or, from the garner-door, an aether borne, 
The chaff flies devious from the winnow'd 

corn ; 
So vague, so devious, at the breath of 

heaven. 
From their fix'd aim are mortal counsels 

driven. — Anony>noiis 

CH.\P. XVII. 

Here is a father now. 

Will truck his daughter for a foreign ven- 
ture. 
Make her a stop-gap to some canker'd feud, 
Or fling her o'er, like Jonah, to the fishes. 
To appease the sea at highest. 

Anfl}iymoiis. 

CHAP. XVIII. I 

^''' 'Sil^sl-^"'"' """"^ ^^^^ '" "'"^ '"'"'' ^ '^'^^ "^"""'^ ^""" crescent scattrely gleams, 
c 1 t t^ 1 1 u 1. ! 1. XL i Ohost-hke siie fades in morning beams ; 

Seek not to bask you by a stranger's hearth ; tt; . u 

Our own blue smoke is warmer than their 
iire. 

Domestic food is wholesome, though 'tis 
homely, 

.And foreign dainties poisonous, though taste- 
ful. — The French Courtezan. 



CHAP. XXVII. 

Why, now I have Dame Fortune by the 

forelock. 
And if she 'scapes my grasp, the fault is 

mine ; 
He that hath buffeted with stern adversity, 
Best knows to shape his course to favoring 

breezes.— OAi^ Play. 



Jfrom tlj£ ir^gnib of gbntros-e. 

ANNOT LYLE'S SONGS. 

1. 

Birds of omen dark and foul. 
Night-crow, raven, bat, and owl. 
Leave the sick man to his dream — 
.\11 night long he heard you scream. 
Haste to cave and ruin'd tower. 
Ivy tod, or dingled-bower, 
There to wink and mope, for, hark ! 
In the mid air sings the lark. 



Hie to moorish gills and rocks, 
Prowling wolf and wily fox, — 
Hie ye fast, nor turn your view, 
Though the lamb bleats to the ewe. 
Couch your trains and speed your flight. 
Safety parts with parting night ; 
And on distant echo borne. 
Comes the hunters early horn. 



lence, each peevish imp and fay 
That scare the pilgrim on his way. — 
Quench, kelpy ! quench, in fog and fen, 
Thy torch, that cheats benighted men ; 
Thy dance is o'er, thy reign is done. 
For Benvieglo hath seen the sun. 



CHAP XXV. 

True-love, an' thou be true, 

Thou hast ane kittle part to play. 

For fortune, fashion, fancy, and thou 
Maun strive for many a day. 

I've kend by mony a friend's tale, 
Far better by this heart of mine, 

What time and change of fancy avail 
A true love-knot to untwine. 

Hendersoun. 



Wild thoughts, that, sinful, dark, and 

deep, 
O'erpower the passive mind in sleep, 
Pass from the slumberer's soul away. 
Like night-mists from the brow of day . 
Foul hag, whose blasted visage grim 
Smothers the pulse, unnerves the limb, 
Spur thy dark palfrey, and begone! 
Thou darest not f.^ce the godlike sun. 

Chap, vL 





































X 


T 



420 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



THE ORPHAN MAID. 
November's hail cloud drifts away, 

November's sun-beam wan 
Looks coldly on the castle gray, 

When forth comes Lady Anne. 

The orphan by the oak was set, 

Her arms, her feet, were bare ; 
The hail-drops had not melted yet, 

Amid her raven hair. 

" And dame," she said, " by all the ties 

That child and mother know, 
Aid one who never knew these joys, — 

Relieve an orphan's woe." 

The lady said, " An orphan's state 

Is hard and sad to bear ; 
Yet worse the widow'd mother's fate. 

Who mourns both lord and heir. 

" Twelve times the rollins; year has sped, 
Since, while from vengeance wild 

Of fierce Strathallan's chief I fled, 
Forth's eddies whelm'd my child." — 

'' Twelve times the year its course has borne," 

The wandering maid replied ; 
" Since fishers on St. Bridget's morn 

Drew nets on Canipsie side. 

" .St. Bridget sent no scaly spoil ; 

An infant, well-nigh dead, 
They saved, and rear'd in want and toil. 

To beg from you her bread." 

That orphan maid the lady kiss'd, — 
" Mv husband's looks you bear; 

Saint Bridget and her morn be bless'dl 
You are his widow's heir." 

They've robed that maid, so poor and pale. 

In silk and sendals rare , 
And pearls, for drops of frozen hail, 

Are glistening in her hair. — Chap. ix. 



Jfram funnljot. 

THE CRUSADER'S RETURN. 



High deeds achieved of knightly fame. 
From Palestine the champion came; 
The cross upon his shoulders borne. 
Battle and blast had dimm'd and torn. 
Each dint u]3on his batter'd shield 
Was token of a foiighten field ; 
And thus, beneath his ladv's bower, 
He sung, as fell the twilight hour : 



" Joy to the fair ! — thy knight behold, 
Return'd from yonder land of gold ; 
No wealth he brings, no wealth can need. 
Save his good arms and battle-steed ; 
His spurs to dash against a foe. 
His lance and sword to lay him low; 
Such all the trophies of his toil. 
Such— and the hope of Tekla's smile ! 

III. 
" Toy to the fair ! whose constant knight 
Her favor fired to feats of might I 
Unnoted shall she not remain 
Where meet the bright and noble train ; 
Minstrel shall sing, and herald tell — 
" Mark yonder maid of beauty well, 
"Tis she for whose bright eyes was won 
The listed field of Ascalon ! 



" ' Note well her smile ! — it edged the 

blade 
Which fifty wives to widows made, 
When, vain his strength and Mahound's 

spell, 
Iconium's turban'd Soldan fell. 
See'st thou her locks, whose sunny glow 
Half shows, half shades, her neck of snow ? 
Twines not of them one golden thread, 
But for its sake a Pavnini bled.' 



" [oy to the fair! — my name unknown, 
Each deed, and all its praise, thme own; 
Then, oh ! unbar this churlish gate, 
The night-dew falls, the hour is late. 
Inured to Syria's glowing breath, 
I feel the north breeze chill as death , 
Let grateful love quell maiden shame, 
And grant him bliss who'bnngs thee fame." 
Chap xviii. 

THE BAREFOOTED FRIAR. 

I 

I'll give thee, good fellow, a twelvemonth 

or twain, 
To search Europe through from Byzantium 

to Spam ! 
But ne'er shall you find, should you search 

till you tire. 
So happy a man as the Barefooted Friar. 

II. 
Your knight for his lady pricks forth in 

career, 
And IS brought home at even-song j.nck'd 

through with a spear ; 







MISCEI.LAXEOUS POEMS. 



421 



I confess him 'n haste — for his lady desires 
No comfort on earth save the Barefooted 
Friar's. 



Your monarch ! — Pshaw ! many a prince 

has been known 
To barter liis robes for our cowl and our 

gown ; 
But which of us e'er felt the idle desire 
To exchange for a crown the gray hood of 

a Friar ? 



The Friar has walk'd out, and where'er he 

has gone, 
The land and his fatness is mark'd for his 

own ; 
He can roam where he lists, he can stop 

where he tires, 
For every man's house is the Barefooted 

Fnar's. 



He's expected at noon, and no wight, till he 

comes, 
May profane the great cliair, or the porridge 

of plums ; 
For the best of the cheer, and the seat by 

the fire, 
Is the undenied right of the Barefooted 

Friar. 

VI. 

He's expected at night, and the pasty's made 

liot, 
They broach the brown ale, and they fill the 

black pot ; 
And tiie good-wife would wish the good-man 

in the mire, 
Ere lie lack'd a soft pillow, the Barefooted 

Friar. 

VII. 

Long flourish the sandal, the cord, and the 

cope. 
The dread of the devil and trust of the 

Pope ! 
For to gather life's roses unscathed by the 

briar 
Is granted alone to the Barefooted Friar. 
Chap, xviii, 

SAXON WAR-SONG. 



Whbt the bright steel, 
Sons of the White Dragon ! 
Kindle the torch, 
Daughter of Hengist! 



The steel glimmers not for the carving of 

the banquet. 
It is hard, broad, and sharply pointed ; 
The torch goeth not to the bridal chamber, 
It steams and glitters blue with sulphur. 
Whet the steel, the raven croaks ! 
Light the torch, Zernebock is yelling ! 
Whet the steel, sons of the Dragon I 
Kindle the torch, daughter of Hengist ! 



The black clouds arc low over the thane 

castle ; 
The eagle screams — he rides on their 

bosom. 
Scream not, gray rider of the sable cloud. 
Thy banquet is prepared ! 
The maidens of Valhalla look forth, 
The race of Hengist will send them guests. 
Shake your black tresses, maidens of 

Valhalla ! 
And strike your loud timbrels for joy ! 
Many a haughty step bends to your halls, 
Many a helmed head. 



Dark sits the evening upon the thane's 

castle. 
The black clouds gather round ; 
Soon shall they be red as the blood of the 

valiant 1 
The destroyer of forests shall shake his red 

crest againvt them , 
He, the bright consumer of palaces, 
Broad waves he his blazing banner, 
Red, wide, and dusky, 
Over the strife of the valiant ; 
His joy IS in the clashing swords and 

broken bucklers; 
He loves to lick the hissing blood as it 

bursts warm from the wound 1 

IV, 

All must perish I 

The sword cleaveth the helmet ; 

The strong armor is pierced by the lance . 

Fire devoureth the dwelling of princes. 

Engines break down the fences of the 

battle. 
All must perish ! 
The race of Hengist is gone — 
The name of Horsa is no more ! 
Shrink not then from your doom, sons of 

the sword ! 
L et your blades drink blood like wine ; 
Feast ye in the banquet of slaughter, 
By the light of the blazing halls ! 







42 2 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Strong be your swords while your blood is 

warm. 
And spare neither for pity nor fear, 
For vengeance hath but an hour ; 
Strong hate itself shall expire ! 
1 also must perish 

Note.—'''' It will readily occur to the anti- 
quary, that these verses are intended to imitate 
the antique poetry of the Scalds— the minstrels 
of the old Scandinavians — the race, as the 
Laureate so happily terms them, 

" Stern to inflict, and stubborn to endure, 
Who smiled in death." 

The ]3oetry of the Anglo-Saxons, after tlieir 
civilization and conversion, was of a different 
and softer cliaracter ; but in tlie circumstances 
of Ulrica, she may be not unnaturallv supposed 
to return to the wild strains which animated he 
forefatliers duriii'i the times of Paganism and 
untamed ferocity." — Chap, xxxii. 

REBECCA'S HYMN. 

When Israel, of the Lord beloved. 

Out from the land of bondage came, 
Her fathers' God before her moved. 

An awful guide in smoke and flame. 
By day, along the astonish'd lands 

The clouded pillar glided slow ; 
By night Arabia's crimson'd sands 

Return'd the fiery column's glow. 

There rose the choral hymn of praise. 

And trump and timbrel answer'd keen, 
And Zion's daughters pour'd their lays. 

With priest's and warrior's voice be- 
tween. 
No portents now our foes amaze. 

Forsaken Israel wanders lone : 
Our fathers would not know Thy ways. 

And Thou hast left them to their own. 

But present still, though now unseen ! 

When brightly shines the prosperous 
day, 
Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen 

To temper the deceitful ray. 
And oh, when stoops on Judah's path 

In shade and storm the frequent night, 
Be Thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath, 

A burning and a shining light ! 

Our harps we left by Babel's streams. 

The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn ; 
No censer round our altar beams, 

And mute are timbrel, harp, and horn. 
But Thou hast said. The blood of goat, 

The flesh of rams, I wil! not prize ; 
A contrite heart, a humble thought, 

Are mine accepted sacrifice. — Chap xl. 



THE BLACK KNIGHT'S SONG 
OR VIRELAl. 

Anna-Marie, love, up is the sun, 

Anna-Marie, love, morn is begun, 

Mists are di'spersing, love, birds singing 

free, 
Up in the morning, love. Anna-Marie. 
Anna-Marie, love, up in the morn, 
The hunter is winding blithe sounds on his 

horn, 
The echo rings merry from rock and from 

tree. 
'Ti< time to arouse thee, love, Anna 

Marie. 

WAMBA. 

O Tybalt, love, Tybalt, awake me not yet. 
Around my soft pillow while softer dreams 

flit; 
For what are the joys that in waking we 

prove, 
Compared with these visions, O Tybalt, my 

love i* 
Let the birds to the rise of the mist carol 

shrill ; 
Let the hunter blow out his loud horn on 

the hill, 
Softer sounds, softer pleasures, in slumber I 

prove, 
But think not I dream'd of thee, Tybalt, my 

love. — Chap. xli. 

SONG. 

DUET BETWEEN THE BLACK KNIGHT 
ANR WAMBA. 

There came three merry men from south, 
west, and north.. 
Ever more sing the roundelay ; 
To win the Widow of Wycombe forth. 
And where was the widow might say 
them nay ? 

The first was a knight, and from Tynedale 
he came. 
Ever more sing the roundelay ; 
And his fathers, God save us, were men of 
great fame, 
And where was the widow might say him 
nay.'' 

Of his father the laird, of his uncle the 
squire, 
He boasted in rhyme and m roundelay ; 
She bade him go bask by his sea-coal fire. 
For she was the widow would say him 
nay 






MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



423 



WAMBA. 

The next that came forth, swore by blood 
and by nails, 
Merrily sing the roundelay ; 
Hur'.s a gentleman, God wot, and hur's 
lineage was of Wales, 
And where was the widow might say him 
nay? 

Sir David ap Morgan ap Griffith ap Hugh 
Ap Tudor ap Rhice, quoth his rounde- 
lay ; 
She said that one widow for so many was 
too few. 
And she bade the Welshman wend his 
way. 

But then next came a yeoman, a yeoman 
of Kent, 
Jollily smging his roundelay ; 
He spoke to the widow of living and rent. 
And where was a widow could say him 
nay ? 



5o the knight and the squire were both left 
in the mire, 
There for to sing their roundelay ; 
For a yeoman of Kent, with his yearly rent. 
There ne'er was a widow could say him 
nay. — Chap. xli. 

FUNERAL HYMN. 

Dust unto dust. 
To this all must ; 

The tenant has resign'd 
The faded form 
To waste and worm — 

Corruption claims her kind. 

Through paths unknown 
Thy soul hath flown, 

To seek the realms of woe, 
Where fiery pain 
Shall urge the stain 

Of actions done below. 

In that sad place, 
By Mary's grace. 

Brief may thy dwelling be ; 
Till prayers and alms, 
And holy psalms, 

Shiiil set the captive free. 

Chap, xliii. 



MOTTOES. 

CHAP. XXXI. 

Approach the chamber, look upon his 

bed. 
His is the passing of no peaceful ghost, 
Which., as the lark arises to the sky, 
'Mid morning's sweetest breeze and softest 

dew. 
Is wing'd to heaven by good men's sighs and 

tears 1 
Anselm parts otherwise. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XXXIII. 

Trust me, each state must have its policies: 
Kingdoms have edicts, cities have their 

charters ; 
Even the wild outlaw, in his forest-walk. 
Keeps yet some touch of civil discipline. 
For not since Adam wore his verdant 

apron. 
Hath man with man in social union dwelt, 
But laws were made to draw the union 

closer.— C>/<f Play. 

CHAP. XXXVI. 

Arouse the tiger of Hyrcanian deserts, 
Strive with the half-starved lion for h:K 

prey ; 
Lesser the risk, than rouse the slumbering 

fire 
Of wild Fanaticism. — Anonymous. 

CHAP. XXXVII. 

Say not my art is fraud — all live by 

seeming. 
The beggar begs with it, and the gay 

courtier 
Gains land and title, rank and rule, by 

seeming : 
The clergy scorn it not, and the bold soldier 
Will eke with it his service. — All admit it. 
All practice it ; and he who is content 
With showing what he is, shall have small 

credit 
In church, or camp, or state. — So wags the 

world —Old Play. 

CHAP XXXVIII. 

Stern was the law which bade its vot'ries 

leave 
At human woes mth human hearts to 

grieve ; 
Stem was the law which at the winning 

wile 
Of frank and harmless mirth forbade to 

smile ; 





424 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



But sterner still, when high the iron rod 
Of tyrant power she shook, and call'd that 
power of God. — The Middle Ages. 



1S20. 

SONGS OF THE WHITE LADY OF 
AVENEL. 

ON TWEED KIVEK. 

I. 

Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright, 

Both current and ripple are dancing m light. 

We have roused the night raven, I heard him 

croak, 
As we plashed along beneath the oak 
That flings its broad branches so far and 

so wide, 
Their siiadows are dancing in midst of the 

tide. 
" Who wakens my nestlings ? " the raven he 

said, 
" My beak shall ere morn in his blood be 

red ! 
For a blue swollen corpse is a dainty meal. 
And I'll have my share with the pike and the 

eel." 

11. 

Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright, 
There's a golden gleam on the distant 

height : 
There's a silver shower on the alders dank. 
And the droopmg willows that wave on the 

bank, 
I see tlie Abbey, both turret and tower, 
It IS all astir for the vesper hour; 
The Monks for the chapel are leaving each 

cell, 
But Where's Father Philip should toll the 

bell.-' 

Id. 
Merrily swim we, the moon'shmes bright, 
Downward we drift through shadow and 

light ; 
Under yon rock the eddies sleep, 
Calm and silent, dark and deep. 
The Kelpy has risen from the fathomless 

pool, 
He has lighted his candle of death and of 

dool 
Look, Father, look, and you'll laugh to see 
How he gapes and glares with his eyes on 

thee ! 



Good luck to your fishing, whom watch ye 

to-night ? 
A man of mean or a man of might ? 
Is it layman or priest that must'float in your 

cove, 
Or lover who crosses to visit his love .' 
Hark ! heard ye the Kelpy reply as we 

pass'd, — 
" God's blessing on the warder, he lock'd-the 

bridge fast ! 
All that come to my cove are sunk. 
Priest or hyman, lover or monk." 



Landed — landed 1 the black booth hath 

won. 
Else had you seen Berwick with morning 

sun ! 
Sain ye, and save ye, and blithe mot ye be, 
For seldom they land that go swimming 

with me. — Cltap.\. 

TO THE SUB-PRIOR. 

Good evening, Sir Priest, and so late as you 

ride. 
With your mule so fair, and your mantle so 

wide ; 
But ride you through valley, or ride you o'er 

hfll. 
There is one that has warrant to wait on you 

still. 

Back, back, 
The volume black ! 
I have a warrant to carry it back. 

What, ho ! Sub-Prior, and came you but 

here 
To conjure a book from a dead woman's 
j bier .'' 

Sain you, and save you, be wary and wise, 
Ride back with the book, or you'll pay for 
your prize. 

Back, back, 

There's death in the track I 
In the name of my master, I bid tiiee bear 
back. 

"In the name of my Master,' said the 
astonished Monk, '• that name before which 
all things created tremble, I conjure thee 
to say what thou art that hauntest me 
thus?" 

The same voice replied, — 
That which is neither ill or well. 
That which belongs not to heaven nor to 
hell. 




<r^ 




MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



425 



A wreath of the mist, a bubble of the 

stream, 
'Twixt a waking thought and a sleeping 
dream ; 

A form that men spy 
With the half-shut eye 
Fn the beams of the setting sun, am I. 

Vainlv, Sir Prior, wouldst thou bar me my 
right 1 

Like the star when it shoots, I can dart 
through the night ; 

I can dance on the torrent, and ride on the 
air, 

And travel the world with the bonny night- 
mare. 

Again, again, 

At the crook of the glen, 

Where bickers the burnie, I'll meet thee 
asain. 



Men of good are bold as sackless* 
Men of rude are wild and reckless, 

Lie thou still 

In the nook of the hill, 
For those be before thee that wish thee ill 
Chap. ix. 

HALBERT'S INVOCATION. 

Thrice to the holly brake- 
Thrice to the well:— 

I bid thee awake, 

White Maid of Avenell 

Noon gleams on the Lake — 
Noon glows on the Fell- 
Wake thee, O wake. 
White Maid of Avenel. 

TO HALBERT. 

Youth of the dark eye, wherefore didst thou 

call me ? 
Wherefore art thou here, if terrors can appal 

thee i 
He that seeks to deal with us must know 

nor fear nor failing ; 
To coward and churl our speech is dark, our 

gifts are unavailing. 
The breeze that brought me hither now must 

sweep Egyptian ground. 
The fleecy cloud on which I ride for Araby is 

bound : 
The fleecy cloud is drifting by, the breeze 

sighs for my stay. 
For I must sail a thousand miles before the 

close of day. 



' Sackless — Innocent. 



What I am I must not show — 
I What I am thou couldst not know- 
Something betwixt heaven and hell- 
Something that neither stood nor fell- 
Something that through thy wit or will 
May work thee good— may work thee ill. 
Neither substance quite, nor shadow, 
Haunting lonely moors and meadow, 
Dancing by the haunted spring. 
Riding on the whirlwind'.s wing ; 
Aping in fantastic fashion 
Every change of human passion. 
While o'er our frozen minds they pass, 
Like shadows from the mirror'd glass, 
Wayward, fickle, is our mood, 
Hovering betwixt bad and good. 
Happier than brief-dated man. 
Living ten times o'er his span ; 
Far less happy, for we have 
Help nor hope beyond the gravel 
Man awakes to joy or sorrow ; 
Ours the sleep that knows no morrow, 
This is all that I can show — 
This is all that thou may'st know. 



Ay ! and I taught thee the word and the 

spell, 
To waken me here by the Fairies' Well. 
But thou hast loved the heron and hawk, 
More than to seek my haunted walk ; 
And thou hast loved the lance and the 

sword. 
More than good text and holy word ; 
And thou hast loved the deer to track, 
More than the lines and the letters black; 
And thou art a ranger of moss and wood, 
And scornest the nurture of gentle blood. 



Thy craven fear my truth accused. 

Thine idlehood my trust abused ; 

He that draws to harbor late, 

Must sleep without, or burst the gate. 

There is a star for thee which burn'd. 

Its influence wanes, its course is tum'd i 

Valour and constancy alone 

Can bring thee back the chance that's flown 



Within that awful volume lies 
The mystery of mysteries I 
Happiest they of human race, 
To whom God has granted grace 
To read, to fear, to hope, to pray, 
To lift the latch, and force the way ; 
And better had they ne'er been bom, 
Who read to doubt, or read to scorn. 





"1^ 



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426 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Many a fathom dark and deep 
1 have laid the book to sleep ; 
Ethereal fires around it glowing- 
Ethereal nuisic ever fiowing — 

The sacred pledge of Heav'n 
All things revere. 
Each in his sphere, 

Save man for whom 'twas gi'vn •. 
Lend thy hand, and thou shalt spy 
Things ne'er seeaby mortal eye. 



Fearest thou to go with me ? 
Still it is free to thee 

A peasant to dwell ; 
Thou may'st drive the dull steer, 
And chase the king's deer, 
But never more come near 

This haunted well. 

Here lies the volume thou boldly hast 

sought ; 
Touch it, and take it, 'twill dearly be 

bought. 



Rash thy deed, 
Mortal weed 
To mortal flames applying ; 
Rasher trust 
Has thing of dust, 
On his own weak worth relying ; 
Strip thee of such fences vain, 
Strip, and prove thy luck again. 



Mortal warp and mortal woof 
Cannot break this charmed roof , 
All that mortal art hath wrought 
In our cell returns to nought. 
The molten gold returns to clay, 
The polish'd diamond melts away : 
All is alter'd, all is flown, 
Nought stands fast but truth alone. 
Not for that thy quest give o'er ; 
Courage ! prove thy chance once more. 



Alas! alas! 

Not ours the grace 

These holy characters to trace ; 

Idle forms of painted air, 

Not to us IS given to share 
The boon bestow'd on Adam's race. 

With patience bide. 

Heaven will provide 
The fitting time, the fitting guide. 

Cha^. xii. 



2-^- 



SONGS 
IN halbert's second interview with 

THE WHITE LADY OF AVENEL. 

This is the day when the fairy kind 
Sit weeping alone for their hopeless lot. 
And the wood-maiden sighs to the sighing 

wind. 
And the mermaiden weeps in her crystal 

grot ; 
For this is a day that the deed was wrought. 
In which we have neither part nor share, 
For the children of clay was salvatior 

bought. 
But not for the forms of sea or air I 
And ever the mortal is most forlorn, 
Who nieeteth our race on the Friday moriL 



Daring youth ! for thee it is well. 
Here calling me in haunted dell, 
That thy heart has not quail'd, 
Nor thy courage fail'd. 
And that thou couldst brook 
The angry look 
Of Her of Avenel. 
Did one limb shiver, 
Or an eyelid quiver, 
Thou wert lost forever. 



Though I in f orm'd from tlie ether blue. 
And my blood is of the unfallen dew. 
And thou art framed of mud and dust, 
'T18 thine to speak, reply I must 



A mightier wizard far than I 

Wields o'er the universe his power; 
Him owns the eagle in the sky. 

The turtle in the bower. 
Changeful in shape, yet mightiest still, 
He wields the heart of man at will, 
From ill to good, from good to ill. 

In cot and castle-tower. 



Ask thy heart, whose secret eel! 
Is fiU'd with Mary Avenel \ 
Ask thy pride, why scornful look 
In Mary's view it will not brook.' 
Ask it, why thou seek'st to rise 
Among the mighty and the wise, — 
Why thou spurn'st thy lowly lot, — 
Why thy pastimes are forgot, — 
Why thou wouldst in bloody strife 
Mend thy hick or loose thy life.^ 
Ask thy heart, and it shall tell, 





MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



427 



Sighing from its secret cell 
'Tis for Maiy Avenel. 



Do not ask me ; 

On doubts like tliese tiiou canst not task me. 

We only see tlie passing sliow 

Of human passions ebb and flow ; 

And view the pageant's idle glance 

As mortals eye the northern dance, 

When thousand streamers flashing bright, 

Career it o'er the brow of night, 

And gazers mark their changeful gleams, 

But feel no influence from their beams. 



By ties mysterious link'd, our fated race 
Holds strange connection with the sons of 

men. 
The star that rose upon the House of 

Avenel, 
When Norman Ulric first assumed the 

name. 
That star, when culminating in its orbit, 
Shot from its sphere a drop of diamond 

dew. 
And this bright font received it — and a 

Spirit 
Rose from the fountain, and her date of 

life 
Hath co-existence with the House of 

Avenel 
And with the star that rules it. 



Look on my girdle — on this thread of 

gold — 
'Tis fine as web of lightest gossamer, 
And, but there is a spell on't, would not 

bind, 
Light as they are, the folds of my thin 

robe. 
But when 'twas donn'd, it was a massive 

chain, 
Such as might bind the champion of the 

Jews. 
Even when his locks were longest — it 

hath dwindled, 
Hath 'minished in its substance and its 

strength. 
As sank the greatness of the House of 

Avenel. 
When this frail thread gives way, I to the 

elements 
Resign the principles of life they lent me. 
Ask me no more of this! — the stars for- 
bid it 



Dim burns the once bright star of Avenel, 
Dim as the beacon when the morn is nigh. 
And the o'er-wearied warder leaves the light- 
house ; 
There is an influence sorrowful and fearful, 
That dogs its downward course. Disastrous 

passion, 
Fierce hate and rivalry, are in the aspect 
That lowers upon its fortunes. 



Complain not of me, child of clay. 

If to thy harm I yield the way. 

We, who soar thy sphere above, 

Know not aught of hate or love ; 

As will or wisdom rules thy mood. 

My gifts to evil turn or good. — Chap. xvii. 

THE WHITE LADY TO MARY 
AVENEL. 

Maiden, whose sorrows wail the Living 
Dead, 
Whose eyes shall commune with the Dead 
Alive, 
Maiden, attend ! Beneath my foot lies hid 
The Word, the Law, the Path which tliou 
dost strive 
To find, and canst not find. — Could Spirits 
shed 
Tears for their lot, it were my lot to weep. 
Showing the road which I shall never tread. 
Though my foot points it. — Sleep, eternal 
sleep. 
Dark, long, and cold forgetfulness my 
lot !— 
But do not thou at human ills repine ; 
Secure their lies full guerdon in this spot 
For all the woes that wait frail Adam's 
line — 
Stoop then and make it yours. — I may not 
make it mine ! — Chap. xxx. 

THE WHITE LADY TO EDWARD 
GLENDENNING. 

Thou who seek'st my fountain lone, 
With thoughts and hopes thou dar'st not 

own ; 
Whose heart within leap'd wildly glad, 
When most his brow seem'd dark and sad ; 
Hie thee back, thou find'st not here 
Corpse or coffin, grave or bier ; 
The Dead Alive is gone and fled — 
Go thou, and join the Living Dead 1 

The Living Dead, whose sober brow 

Oft shrouds such thoughts as thou hast now- 




1 




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428 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 


U y^—^ 




Whose hearts within are seldom cured 


Trumpets are sounding, 




Of passions by their vows abjured ; 


War-steeds are bounding, 






J \, Where, under sad and solemn show, 


Stand to your arms, and march in good 






Vain hopes are nursed, wild wishes glow 


order ; 






Seek the convent's vaulted room, 


England shall many a day 






Prayer and vigil be thou doom ; 


Tell of the bloody fray, 






Doff the green and don the gray. 


When the Blue Bonnets came over the 






To the cloister hence away ! — Chap, xxxii. 


Border.— C/^a/. xxv. 






THE WHITE LADY'S FAREWELL. 


MOTTOES. 






Fare thee well, thou Holly green ! 








Thou shalt seldom now be seen. 


CHAP. I. 






With all thy glittering garlands bending. 
As to greet my slow descending. 








AY ! the Monks, the Monks, they did the 






Startling the bewilder'd hind. 


mischief ! 






Who sees thee wave without a wind. 


Theirs all the grossness, all the superstition 
Of a most gross and superstitious age. — 






Farewell, Fountain ! now not long 


May He be praised that sent the healthful 






Shalt thou murmur to my song. 


tempest, 






While thy crystal bubbles glancing. 


And scatter'd all these pestilential vapors ; 


• 




Keep the time in mystic dancing. 


But that we owed them all to yonder Harlot 






Rise and swell, are burst and lost. 


Throned on the seven hills with her cup of 






Like mortal schemes by fortune cross'd. 


gold, 
1 will as soon believe, with kind Sir Roger, 






The knot of fate at length is tied. 


That old Moll White took wing with cat and 






The Churl is Lord, the Maid is Bride ! 


broomstick. 






Vainly did my magic sleight 


And raised the last night's thunder. 






Send the lover from her sight ; 


Old Play. 






Wither bush, and perish well, 








Fall'n is lofty Avenel \—Chap. xxx 


CHAP. II. 






BORDER BALLAD. 
I. 


In yon lone vale his early youth was bred. 

Not solitary then— the bugle-horn 

Of fell Alecto often waked its windings, 






March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, 


From where the brook joins the majestic 






Why the deil dinna ye march forward in 


river. 






order ? 


To the wild northern bog, the curlew's haunt, 






March, march, Eskdale and Liddisdale, 


Where oozes forth its first and feeble 






All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the 
Border. 

Many a banner spread. 


streamlet.— Old Play 






CHAP. VIII. 






Flutters above your head, 








Many a crest that is famous in story. 


Nay, dally not with time, tae wise man's 
treasure, 






Mount and make ready then, 






Sons of the mountain glen, 


Though fools are lavish on't — the fatal 






Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish 


Fisher 






glory. 


Hooks souls, while we waste moments 






II. 


Old Play 






Come from the hills where your hirsels are 


CHAP. XI. 






grazing, 








. Come from the glen of the buck and the 


You call this education, do you not ? 




, 


1 ' roe ; 


Why 'tis the forced march of a herd of bul- 






Come to the crag where the beacon is 


locks 






blazing, 


Before a shouting drover. The glad van 






Coine with the buckler, the lance, and the 


Move on at ease, and pause a while to snatch 






bow 


A passing morsel from the dewy greensward. 






L 






X 




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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



429 



While all the blows, the oaths, the indigna- 
tion, 
Fall on the croupe of the ill-fated laggard 
That cripples in the rear. — OLdPlay. 

CHAP. Xll 

There's something in that ancient supersti- 
tion. 

Which, erring as it is, our fancy loves. 

The spring that, with its thousand crystal 
bubbles, 

Bursts irom the bosom of some desert rock 

In secret solitude, may well be deem'd 

The haunt of something purer, more re- 
fined. 

And mightier than ourselves. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XIV. 

Nay, let me have the friends who eat my 

victuals. 
As various as my dishes. The feast's 

naught. 
Where one huge plate predominates. — John 

Plaintext, 
He shall be mighty beef, our English staple ; 
The worthy Alderman, abutter'd dumpling ■, 
Yon pair of whisker'd Cornets, ruffs and 

reeves ; 
Their friend the Dandy, a green goose in 

sippets. 
And so the board is spread at once and 

■ fill'd 
On the same principle — Variety. 

New Play. 

CHAP. XV. 

He strikes no coin, 'tis true, but coins new 

phrases, 
And vends them forth as knaves vend 

gilded counters, 
Which wise men scorn, Hnd fools accept in 

payment. — Old Play. 

CHAP XIX. 

Now choose thee, gallant, betwixt wealth 

and honor ; 
There lies the pelf, in sum to bear thee 

through 
The dance of youth, and the turmoil of 

manhood. 
Yet leavi^ enough for age's chimney-corner ; 
But an thou grasp to it, farewell Ambition ! 
Farewell each hope of bettering thy con- 

dition. 



'^-4- 



And raising thy low rank above the churls 
That till the earth for bread '.—Old Play. 

CHAP. XXI. 

Indifferent, but indifferent — pshaw 1 he 
doth it not 

Like one who is his craft's master — ne'er- 
theless 

I have seen a clown confer a bloody cox- 
comb 

On one who was -a master of defence. 

Old Play 

CHAP. XXII. 

Yes, life hath left him— every busy thought. 
Each fiery passion, every strong affection. 
The sense of outward ill and inward sor- 
row, 
Are fled at once from the pale trunk before 

me ; 
And 1 have given that which spoke and 

moved. 
Thought, acted, suffer'd, as a living man, 
To be a ghastly form of bloody clay, 
Soon the foul food for reptiles.— 0/a' Play. 

CHAP. XXIII. 

'Tis when the wound is stiffening with the 

cold, 
The warrior first feels pain — 'tis when the 

heat 
And fiery fever of his soul is past, 
The sinner feels remorse. — Old Play 

CHAP. XXIV. 

I'll walk on tiptoe ; arm my eye- with 

caution. 
My lieart with courage, and my hand with 

weapon, 
Like him who ventures on a lion's den. 

Old Play. 

CHAP. XXVII. 

Now, by Our Lady, Sheriff, 'tis hard reck- 
oning. 
That I, with every odds of birth and barony, 
Should be detain'd here for the casual 

death 
Of a wild forester, whose utmost having 
Is but the brazen buckle of the belt 
In which he sticks his hedge-knife. 

Old Play 

CHAP. XXX. 

You call it an ill angel — it may be so 

But sure I am, among the ranks which fell, 



^ 



430 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS 



Tis the first fiend e'er counsell'd man to 

rise, 
Aii(i win the bhss the sprite himself had 
lorfeited.— 0/ri' Play. 

CHAP. XXXI. 

At school I knew him — a sharp-witted 

youth, 
(jrave, thoughtful, and reserved amongst his 

mates. 
Turning the hours of sport and food to 

labor, 
Starving his body to inform his mind. 

Old Play. 

CHAP. XXXIIi. 

Now on my faith this gear is all entangled. 
Like to the yarn-clew of the drowsy knitter, 
Dragg'd by the frolic kitten through the 

cabin, 
While the good dame sits nodding o'er the 

fire — 
Masters, attend ; 'twill crave some skill to 

clear it.— Old Play. 

CHAP. XXXIV. 

It is not texts will do it — Church artillery 

Are silenced soon by real ordnance. 

And canons are but vain opposed to 

cannon. 
Go, coin your crosier, melt your church 

plate down. 
Bid the starved soldiers banquet in your 

halls, 
And quaff your long-saved hogsheads — 

Turn them out 
Thus primed with your good cheer, to guard 

your wall. 
And they will venture for 't. — Old Play. 



Jrom tbc gibbot. 
1S20. 

MOTTOES. 

CHAP V. 

— — In the wild storm, 

The seaman hews his mast down, and the 
merchant 

Heaves to the billows wares he once deem'd 
precious • 

So prince and peer, 'mid popular conten- 
tions, 

Cast off their favorites. — Old Play. 



CHAP. VI. 

Thou hast each secret of the household. 

Francis 
I dare be sworn thou hast been in the 

buttery 
Steeping thy curious humor in fat ale. 
And in the butler's tattle — ay, or chatting 
With the glib waiting-woman o'er her 

comfits — 
These bear the key to each domestic 

mystery.— 0/a^ Play. 

. CHAP. VIII. 

The sacred tapers' lights are gone, 
Gray moss has clad the altar stone, 
The holy image is o'erthrown, 

The bell has ceased to toll. 
The long-ribb'd aisles are burst and shrunk, 
The holy shrines to ruin sunk. 
Departed is the pious monk, 

God's blessing on his soul \—Rediviva. 

CHAP. XI. 

Life hath its May, and all is mirthful then : 
The woods are vocal, and the flowers all 

odor; 
Its very blast has mirth in't, — and the 

maidens, 
The while they don their cloaks to skreen 

their kirtles, 
Laugh at the rain that wets them. 

Old Play. 

CHAP. XII. 

Nay, hear me, brother — I am elder, wiser, ■ 
And holier than thou ; and age, and 

wisdom. 
And holiness, have peremptory claims, 
And will be listen'd to.— Old Play. 

CHAP. XIV. 

Not the wild billow, when it breaks its 
barrier — 

Not the wild wind, escaping from its 
cavern, — 

Not the wild fiend, that mingles both to- 
gether, 

And pours their rage upon the ripenin;^ 
harvest. 

Can match the wild freaks of this mirthful 
meeting — 

Comic, yet fearful — droll, and yet destruc- 
tive. — T/ic Conspiracy. 
CHAP. XVI. 

Youth ' thou wear'st to manhood now, 
Darker lip and darker brow^ 
Statelier step, more pensive mien, 
In thy face and gait are seen . 



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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 43 


1 




Thou must now brook midnight watches, 


CHAP. XXVIII. 




Take thy food and sport by snatches ! 


Yes, It is she whose eyes looked on thy 






J For the gambol and the jest. 


childhood, ^ \_ 






i Thou wert wont to love the best, 


And watoh'd with trembling hope thy dawn \ 






Graver follies must tliou follow, 


of youth. 
That now with these same eye-balls, dimm'd 






But as senseless, false, and hollow. 






Life, a Poem. 


with age. 






CHAP XIX 


And dimmer yet with tears, sees thy dis- 
honor — Old Play. 






It is and is not — 'tis the thing I sought 








for. 


CHAP. XXX 






Have kneel'd for, pray'd for, risk'dmy fame 








and life for, 


In some breasts passion lies conceal'd and 






And yet it is not — no more than the 


silent. 






shadow 


Like war's swart powder in a, castle^ vault, 






Upon the hard, cold, flat, and polish'd 
mirror, 


Until occasion, like the linstock, lights it ; 






Then comes at once the lightning and the 






Is the warm, graceful, rounded, livins 


thunder. 






substance 


.And distant echoes tell that all is rent 






Which it presents in form and lineament. 


asunder. — Old Play. 






0/d Play. 








CHAP. XXIII. 








Give me a morsel on the greensward rather, 








Coarse as yon will the cooking- — Let the 








fresh spring. 
Bubble beside my napkin — and the free 


Jrom JlEitillirorll^. 






birds, 


1821. 






Twittering and chirping, hop from bough to 
bough. 


GOLDTHRED'S SONG. 






To claim the crumbs I leave for per- 


Of all the birds on bush or tree. 






quisites — 


Commend me to the owl. 






Your prison-feasts I like not. 


Since he may best ensample be 






The Woodman, a Drama. 


To those the cup that trowl. 
For when the sun hath left the west. 






CHAP. XXIV. 


He choses the tree that he loves the best, 






'Tis a weary life this 


And he whoops out his song, and he laughs 






Vaults overhead, and grates and bars around 


at his jest. 






me, 


Then, though hours be late, and weather 






And my sad hours spent with as sad com- 


foul. 






panions. 


We'll drink to the health of the bonny, bonny 






Whose thoughts are brooding o'er tiieir own 


owl. 






mischances, 








Far, far too d£eply to take part in mine. 


The lark is but a bumpkin fowl, 






The Woodsman. 


He sleeps in his nest till morn ; 
But my blessing upon the jolly owl, 






CHAP. XXV. 


Tliat all night blows his horn. 






And when Love's torch hatli set the heart 


Then up with your cup till you stagger in 






in flame. 


speech, 






Comes Seignor Reason, with his saws and 


And match me this catch, till you swagger 






cautions, 


and screech. 






Giving such aid as the old gray-beard 


And drink till you wink, my merry men 






, - Sexton, 


each ; 






Who from the church-vault drags his crazy 


For, though hours be late, and weather be '\ ? 






engine, 


foul. 






To ply its dribbling ineffectual streamlet 


We'll drink to the health of the bonny. 






Against a conflagration. — 0/d Play. 


bonny owl. — Chap. ii. 






1^ 


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Jl 
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- 


XI •- 


(, 1- .1 4 ■- ■ ' 1 J 


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432 



SCOTT'S POETICAL IVOR AS 



MOTTOES 

CHAP. IV. 

Not serve two masters ? — Here's a youth 

will try it — 
Would fain serve God, yet give the devil his 

due ; 
Says grace before he doth a deed of vil- 

lany, 
And returns his thanks devoutly when 'tis 

ncXtd.— Old Play. 

CHAP VII. 

This is He 

Who rides on the court-gale ; controls its 
tides ; 

Knows all their secret shoals and fatal 
eddies ; 

Whose frown abases, and whose smile 
exalts. 

He shines like any rainbow — and, per- 
chance, 

His colors are as transient. — O/^/ Play. 

CHAP. XIV. 

This is rare news thou tell'st me, my good 

fellow ; 
There are two bulls fierce battling on the 

green 
For one fair heifer — if the one goes down, 
The dale will be more peaceful, and the 

herd, 
Which have small interest in their brulzie- 

ment, 
May pasture there in peace. — Old Play. 

CHAP, XXIII. 

Now God be good to me in this wild pil- 
grimage ! 

All hope in human aid I cast behind me. 

Oh, who would be a woman? who that 
fool, 

A weeping, pining, faithful, loving woman .'' 

She hath hard measure still where she 
hopes kindest, 

And all her bounties only make ingrates. 
Lovers Pilgrimage. 

CHAP. XXV. 

Hark ! the bells summon, and the bugle 

calls. 
But she the fairest answers not ; the tide 
Of nobles and of ladies throngs the halls. 
But she the loveliest must in secret hide, 
What eyes were thine, proud Prince, which 

in the gleam 
Of yon gay meteors lost that better sense, 



That o'er the glow-worm doth the star 

esteem, 
And merit's modest blush o'er courtly mso- 

lence. — The Glass Slipper. 

CHAP. XXVIII. 

What, man, ne'er lack a draught, when the 

full can 
Stands at thine elbow, and craves empty- 
ing, 
Nay, fear not me, for I have no dehght 
To watch men's vices, smce 1 have myself 
Of virtue nought to boast of,— I'm a 

striker. 
Would have the world strike with me, pell- 
mell, aW.—Pandcemonium. 

CHAP. xxxn. 

The wisest sovereigns err like private men) 
And royal hand has sometimes laid the 

sword 
Of chivalry upon a worthless shoulder. 
Which better had been branded by the hang- 
man. 
What then ? Kings do their best, — and they 

and we 
Must answer for the intent, and not the 
event. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XL. 

High o'er the eastern steep the sun is 

beaming. 
And darkness flies with her deceitful 

shadows ; 
So truth prevails o'er falsehood. 

Old Play. 



(tjrom \\it pirate. 
1821. 

THE SONG OF THE TEMPEST 



Stern eagle of the far north-west. 

Thou that bearest in thy grasp the thun 

derbolt, 
Thou whose rushing pinions stir ocean to 

madness. 
Thou the destroyer of herds, thou the scat 

terer of navies. 
Amidst the scream of thy rage. 
Amidst the rushing of thv onward wings. 
Though thy scream be loud as the cry of a 

perishing nation. 



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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 433 






Though the rushing of thy wings be like 


Cease thou the flashing of thine eye, 




the roar of ten thousand waves, 


Let the thunderbolt sleep in the armory of 






J I Vet hear, in thine ire and thy haste. 


Odin ; J 






Hear thou the voice of the Reim-kennar. 


Be thou still at my bidding, viewless racer \ 
of the north-western heaven, — 






II. 


Sleep thou at the voice of Noma the Reim- 
kennar. 






Thou hast met the pine-trees of Drontheim, 








Their dark green heads lie prostrate beside 

their uprooted stems ; 
Thou hast met the rider of the ocean, 


Eagle of the far north-western waters. 






Thou hast heard the voice of the Reim- 






The tall, the strong bark of the fearless 
rover. 


kennar, 






Thou hast closed thy wide sails at her 






And she has struck to thee the topsail 


bidding, 






That she had not vail'd to a royal armada. 


And folded them in peace by thy side. 






Thou hast met the tower that bears its crest 


My blessing be on thy retiring path ; 






among the clouds, 


When thou stoopest from thy place on high, 






The battled massive tower of the Jarl of 


Soft be thy slumbers in the caverns of the 






former days. 
And the cope-stone of the turret 
Is lying upon its hospitable hearth ; 
But thou too shalt stoop, proud compeller 

of clouds. 


unknown ocean. 






Rest till destiny shall again awaken thee ; 






Eagle of the north-west, thou hast heard the 
voice of the Reim-kennar. 

Chap. VI. 






When thou hearest the voice of the Reim- 








kennar. 


CLAUD HALCRO'S SONG. 

MARY. 






III. 


Farewell to Northmaven, 






There are verses that can stop the stag in 


Gray Hillswicke, farewell! 






the forest. 


To the calms of thy haven. 






Ay, when the dark-color'd.dog is opening on 


The storms on thy fell — 






his track ; 


To each breeze that can vary 






There are verses can make the wild hawk 


The mood of thy main. 






pause on the wing. 


And to thee, bonny Mary ! 






Like the falcon that wears the hood and the 


We meet not again ! 






jesses, 








And who knows the shrill whistle of the 


Farewell the wild ferry, 






fowler. 


Which Hacon could brave, 






Thou who canst mock at the scream of the 


When the peaks of the Skerry 






drowning mariner. 


Were white in the wave. 






And the crash of the ravaged forest. 


There's a maid may look over 






And the groan of the overwhelmed crowds, 


These wild waves in vain, — 






When the church hath fallen in the moment 


For the skiff of her lover — 






of prayer ; 


He comes not again ! 






There are sounds which thou also must list, 








When they are chanted by the voice of the 


The vows thou hast broke, 






Reim-kennar. 


On the wild currents fling them ; 
On the quicksand and rock 






IV. 


Let the mermaidens sing them. 






Enough of woe hast thou wrought on the 


New sweetness they'll give her 






ocean. 


Bewildering strain ; 






The widows wring their hands on the 


But there's one who will never 






beach ; 


Believe them again. 




r 


f» Enough of woe hast thou wrought on the 


t\ n 






land, 


were there an island. 






The husbandman folds his arms in despair ; 


Though ever so wild, 






Cease thou the waving of thy pinions, 


Where woman could smile, and 






Let the ocean repose in her dark strength. 
28 


No man be beguiled — 




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^34 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 


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Too tempting a snare 


SONG OF THE MERMAIDS ANI 




To poor mortals were given ; 


MERMEN. 1 1 






J li And the hope would fix there, 


ci \i 






That should anchor in heaven. 


MERMAID. 






C/ia/. xii. 








Fathoms deep beneath the wave, 








Stringing beads of glistering pearl, 






THE SONG OF HAROLD 


Singing the achievements brave 
Of many an old Norwegian earl ; 






HARFAGER. 


Dwelling where the tempest's raving 
Falls as light upon our ear 






i'HE sun is rising dimly red, 


As the sigh of lover, craving 






The wind is wailing low and dread ; 


Pity from his lady dear. 






From his cliff the eagle sallies, 


Children of wild Thule, we. 






Leaves the wolf his darksome valleys; 


From the deep caves of the sea, 






In the midst the ravens hover, 


As the lark springs from the lea, 
Hither come, to share your glee. 






Peep the wild dogs from the cover, 






Screaming, croaking, baying, yelling. 






Each in his wild accents telling, 








" Soon we feast on dead and dying. 


MERMAN. 






Fair-hair'd Harold's flag is flying. " 


From reining of the water-horse, 

That bounded till the waves were foam 






Many a crest on air is streaming. 


ing, 






Many a helmet darkly gleaming, 


Watching the infant tempest's course. 






Many an arm the axe uprears. 


Chasing the sea-snake in his roaming ; 






Doom'd to hew the wood of spears. 


From winding charge-notes on the shell. 






All along the crowded ranks 


When the huge whale and swordfish duel. 






Horses neigh and armor clanks ; 


Or tolling shroudless seamen's knell. 






Chiefs are shouting, clarions ringing, 


When the winds and waves are cruel ; 






Louder still the bard is singing, 


Children of wild Thule, we 






" Gather footmen, gather horsemen. 


Have plough'd such furrows on the sea, 






To the field, ye valiant Norsemen ! 


As the steet draws on the lea, 

And hither we come to shaie your glee. 






" Halt ye not for food or slumber. 








View not vantage, count not number . 


MERMAIDS AND MERMEN 






Jolly reapers, forward still, 








Grow the crop on vale or hill. 


We heard you in our twilight caves, 






Thick or scatter'd, stiff or lithe, 


A hundred fathom deep below, 






It shall down before the scythe. 


Foi notes of toy can pierce the waves, 






Forward with your sickles bright. 


That drown each sound of war and woe. 






Reap the harvest of the fight.— 


Those who dwell beneath the sea 






Onward footmen, onward horsemen, 


Love the sons of Thule well ; 






To the charge, ye gallant Norsemen ! 


Thus, to aid your mirth bring we 
Dance, and song, and sounding shell 






'• Fatal Choosers of the Slaughter, 


Children of dark Thule, know. 






O'er you hovers Odin's daughter ; 


Those who dwell by haaf and voe. 






Hear the choice she spreads before ye, — 
Victory, and wealth, and glory ; 


Where your daring shallops row 






Come to share the festal show 






Or old Valhalla's roaring hail. 


Chap xvi 






Her ever-circling mead and ale. 








Where for eternity unite 


NORNA'S SONG. 






The joys of wassail and of fight. 








f| p Headlong forward, foot and horsemen. 


For leagues along the watery way, ^ f 






Charge and fight, and die • like Norse- 


Through gulf and stream my course has 






men ! ""—Chap. XV. 


been ; 
The billows know my Runic lay. 






Th 


And smooth their crests to silent green. 






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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



435 



The billows know my Runic lay, - 

The gulf grows smooth, the stream is 
still , 

But huinan hearts, more wild than they, 
Know but the rule of wayward will. 

One hour is mine, in all the year, 
To tell my woes,- — and one alone ; 

When gleams this magic lamp 'tis here, — 
When dies the mystic light, 'tis gone 

Daughters of northern Magnus, hail ! 

The lamp is lit, the flame is cfcar, — 
To you I come to tell my tale, 

Awake, arise, my tale to hear ! 

Chap. xix. 

CLAUD HALCRO AND NORNA. 

CLAUD HALCRO. 

Mother darksome, Mother dread. 

Dweller of the Fitful-head, 

Thou canst see what deeds are done 

Under the never-setting sun 

Look through sleet, and look through frost, 

Look to Greenland's caves and coast, — 

By the ice-berg is a. sail 

Thasing of the swarthy whale ; 

Mother doubtful, Mother dread, 

Tell us, has the good ship sped ? 

NORNA. 

The thought of the aged is ever on gear, — 
On his hshing, his furrow, his flock, and his 

steer; 
But thrive may his fishing, flock, furrow, and 

herd, 
While the aged for anguish shall tear his 

gray beard. 
The ship, well-laden as baik need be. 
Lies deep in the furrow of the Iceland 

sea ; — 
The breeze for Zetland blows fair and soft. 
And gayiy the y;arland is fluttering aloft : 
Seven good fishes have spouted their last. 
And their jaw-bones are hanging to yard and 

mast ; 
Two are for Lerwick, and two for Kirk- 
wall, — 
Three for Burgh Westra, the choicest of all. 

CLAUD HALCRO. 

Mother doubtful. Mother dread! 
Dweller of the Fitful-head, 
Thou hast conn'd full many a rhyme, 
That lives upon the surge of time: 
Tell me, shall my lays be sung, 
Like Hacon's of the golden tongue, 



Long ditei Halcro's dead and gone? 
Oi; shall Hialtland's minstrel own 
One note to rival glorious John i' 

NORNA. 

The infant loves the rattle's noise; 
Age, double childhood, hath its toys ; 
But different far the descant rings, 
As strikes a different hand the strings. 
The eagle mounts the polar sky— 
The Imber-goose, unskill'd to fly. 
Must be content to glide along, 
Where seal and sea-dog list his song. 

CLAUD HALCRO. 

Be mine the Imber goose to play. 
And haunt long cave and silent bay ; 
The archer's aim so shall I shun — 
So shall I 'scape the levell'd gun- 
Content my verses' tuneless jingle 
With Thule's sounding tides to mingle, 
While, to the ear of wondering wight. 
Upon the distant headland's height, 
Soften'd by murmur of the sea, 
The ruds sounds seem like harmony ! 

Mother doubtful. Mother dread, 
Dweller of the Fitful-head, 
A gallant bark from far abroad. 
Saint Magnus hath her in his road, 
With guns and firelocks not a few — 
A silken and a scarlet crew, 
Deep stored with merchandise, 
Of gold, and goods of rare device — 
What interest hath our comrade bold 
In bark and crew, in goods and gold .'' 



Gold is ruddy, fair, and free. 
Blood is crimson, and dark to see; 
I look'd out on Saint Magnus Bay, 
And 1 saw a falcon that struck her prey, 
i A gobbet of fish in her beak she bore. 
And talons and singles are dripp'.ng with 

gore ; — 
Let him that asks after them look on hi? 

hand. 
And if there is blood on't, he's one of theii^ 

band. 

CLAUD HALCRO. 

Mother doubtful. Mother dread, 
Dweller of the Fitful-head, 
Well thou know'st it is thy task 
To tell what Beauty will not ask ; — 
Then steep thy words in wine and milk. 
And weave a doom of gold and silk, — 



X 





43^ 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



For we would know, shall Brenda prove 
In love, and happy in her love? 



Untouch 'd by love, the maiden's breast 
Is like the snow on Rona's crest, 
High seated in the middle sky, 
In bright and barren purity ; 
But by the sunbeam gently kiss'd, 
Scarce by the gazing eye 'tis miss'd, 
Ere down the lonely valley stealing, 
Fresh grass and growth its course reveal- 
ing, 
It cheers the flock, revives the flower. 
And decks some happy shepherd's bower. 

MAGNUS TROIL. 

Mother, speak, and do not tarry. 
Here's a maiden fain would marry; 
Shall she marry, ay or not? 
If she marry, what's her lot ? 



Untouch'd by love, the maiden's breast 
Is like the snow on Rona's crest ; 
So pure, so free from earthly dye, 
It seems, whilst leaning on the sky, 
Part of the heaven to which 'tis nigh ; 
But passion, like the wild March rain. 
May soil the wreath with many a stain. 
We gaze — the lovely vision's gone — 
A torrent fills the bed of stone, 
That hurrymg to destruction's shock, 
Leaps headlong from the lofty rock. 

Chap. xxi. 

SONG OF THE ZETLAND 
FISHERMAN. 

Farewell, merry maidens, to song and to 

laugh, 
For the brave lads of Westra are bound to 

the Haaf 
And we must have labor, and hunger and 

pam, 
Ere we dance with the maids of Dunrossness 

again. 

For now, m our trmi boats of Noroway 
deal, 

We must dance on the waves, with the por- 
poise and seal ! 

The breeze it shall pipe, so it pipe not too 
high, 

And the gull be our songstress whene'er she 
flits by. 



Sing on, my brave bird, while we follow, like 

thee, 
By bank, shoal, and quicksand, the swarms 

of the sea ; 
And when twenty score fishes are straining 

our line. 
Sing louder, brave bird, for their spoils shall 

be thine. 

We'll sing while we bait, and we'll sing while 

we haul, 
For the deeps of the Haaf have enough for 

us all :, 
There is torsk for the gentle, and skate for 

the carle, 
And there's wealth for bold Magnus, the son 

of the earl. 

Huzza ! my brave comrades, give way for 

the Haaf, 
We shall sooner come back to the dance and 

the laugh ; 
For life without mirth is a lamp without 

oil ; 
Then, mirth and long life to the bold Magnus 

Troil ! — Chap. xxii. 

CLEVELAND'S SONGS. 



Love wakes and weeps 

While Beauty sleeps ! 
for Music's softest number 

To prompt a theme, 

For Beauty's dream, 
Soft as the pillow of her slumbers 
II. 

Through groves of palm 

Sigh gales of balm, 
Fire-flies on the air are wheeling ; 

While through the gloom 

Comes soft perfume, 
The distant beds of flowers revealing, 
III. 

O wake and live! 

No dream can give 
A shadow'd bliss, the real excelling ; 

No longer sleep, 

From lattice peep, 
And list the tale that Love is telling. 

Farewell ! farewell ! the voice you hear 
Has left its last soft tone with you, — 

Its next must join the seaward cheer. 
And shout among the shouting crew. 

The accents which 1 scarce could form 
Beneath your frown's cheek. 



□^ 



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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



437 



Must give the word above the storm, 
To cut the mast, and clear the wreck. 

The timid eye I dared not raise, — 

The hand, that shook when press'd to 
thine, 

Must point the guns upon the chase — 
Must bid the deadly cutlass shine. 

To all I love, or hope, or fear. 

Honor, or own, a long adieu ! 
To all that life has soft and dear. 

Farewell ! save memory of you ! 

Chap, xxiii. 

CLAUD HALCRO'S VERSES. 
And you shall deal the funeral dole ; 

Ay, deal it, mother mine. 
To weary body, and to heavy soul, 

To white bread and the wine. 

And you shall deal my horses of pride ; 

Ay, deal them, mother mine; 
And you shall deal my lands so wide. 

And deal my castles nine. 

But deal not vengeance for the deed, 

And deal not for the crime ; 
Thy body to its place, and the soul to 
Heaven's grace, 

And the rest in God's own time. 

NORNA'S INCANTATIONS. 

Champion, famed for warlike toil, 
Art thou silent, Ribolt Troil? 
S^nd, and dust, and pebbly stones, 
Are leaving bare thy giant bones. 
Who dared touch the wild bear's skin 
Ye slumber'd on, while life was in ? — 
A woman now, or babe, may come 
And cast the covering from thy tomb. 

Yet be not wrathful. Chief, nor blight 

Mine eyes or ears with sound or sight ! 

1 come not, with unhallow'd tread. 

To wake the slumbers of the dead, 

Or lay thy giant reliques bare ; 

But what I s°ek thou well canst spare. 

Be it to my hand allow'd 

To shear a merk's weight from thy shroud ; 

Yet leave thee sheeted lead enough 

To shield thy bones from weather rough. 

See. I draw my magic knife — 

Never, while thou wert in life, 

Laidst thou still for sloth or fear, 

When point and edge were glittering near; 

See, the cerements now I sever — 

Wal:en now. or sleep forever 1 



Thou wilt not wake — the deed is done ! — 
The prize I sought is fairly worn. 

Thanks, Ribolt, thanks, — for this the sea 
Shall smooth its ruffled crest for thee — 
And while afar its billows foam, 
Subside to peace near Ribolt's tomb. 
Thanks, Ribolt, thanks — for this the might 
Of wild winds raging at their height. 
When to thy place of slumber nigh, 
Shall soften to a lullaby. 

She, the dame of doubt and dread. 
Noma of the Fitful-head, 
Mighty in her own despite, — 
Miserable in her might ; 
In despair and frenzy ereat. 
In her greatness desolate ; 
Wisest, wickedest who lives, — 
Well can keep the word she gives. 

Chap. XXV. 

[her interview with MINNA.] 

Thou, so needful, yet so dread, 
With cloudy crest, and wing of red 
Thou, without wliose genial breath 
The North would sleep the sleep of death 
Who deign'st to warm the cottage hearth, 
Yet hurl'st proud palaces to earth, — 
Brightest, keenest of the Powers, 
Which form and rule this world of ours. 
With my rhyme of Runic, I 
Thank thee for thy agency. 



Old Reim-kennar, to thy art 
Mother Hertha sends her part ; 
She, whose gracious bounty gives 
Needful food for all that lives. 
From the deep mine of the North 
Came the mystic metal forth, 
Doom'd amidst disjointed stones, 
Long to cere a champion's bones, 
Disinhumed my charms to aid — 
Mother Ea>-th, my thanks are paid. 



Girdle of our islands dear, 
Element of W^ater, hear ! 
Thou whose power can overwhelm 
Broken mounds and ruin'd realm 

On the lowly Belgian strand ; 
All thy fiercest range can never 
Of our soil a furlong sever 

From our rock-defended land ; 
Play then gently thou thy part. 
To assist old Noma's art. 




c I ? 

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43» 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Elements, each other greeting, 

Gifts and power attend your meeting : 



Thou, that over billows dark, 
Safely send'st the fisher's bark, — 
Giving him a path and motion 
Through the wilderness of ocean ; 
Thou, that when the billows brave ye, 
O'er the shelves canst drive the navy,- 
Didst thou cliafe as one neglected, 
While thy brethren were respected? 
To appease thee, see, I tear 
This full grasp of grizzled hair , 
Oft thy breath hath through it sung, 
Softening to my magic tongue,— 
Now, tis thine to bid it fly 
Through the wide expanse of sky, 
'Mid the countless swarms to sail 
Of wild-fowl wheeling on thy gale •; 
Take thy portion and rejoice, — 
Spirit, thou hr^st heard my voice ! 



She who sits by haunted well, 

Is subject to thfe Nixies' spell- 

She who walks on lonely beach, 

To the Mermaid's charmed speech ; 

She who walks round ring of green, 

Offends the peevish Fairy Queen ; 

And she who takes rest in the Dwarfie's 

cave, 
A weary weird of woe shall have. 

By ring, by spring, by cave, by shore, 
Minna Troil has braved all this and more ; 
And yet hath the root of her sorrow and ill, 
A source that's more deep and more mys- 
tical still.— 
Thou art within a demon's hold, 
More wise than Helms, more strong than 

Trold 
No siren sings so sweet as he, — 
No fay springs lighter on the lea ; 
No elfin power hath half the art, 
To soothe, to move, to wring the heart,— 
Life-blood from the cheek to drain, 
Drench the eye and dry the vein. 
Maiden, ere we farther go. 
Dost thou note me, ay or no i 

MINNA. 

I mark thee, my mother, both word, look 

and sign ; 
Speak on with thy riddle -to read it be 

mino. 



Mark me ! for the word I speak 

Shall bring the color to thy cheek. 

Tiiis laden heart, so light of cost, 

The symbol of treasure lost, 

Thou shalt wear in hope and in peace. 

That the cause of your sickness and sorrow 

may cease, 
When crimson foot meets crimson hand 
In the Martyr's Aisle, and in Orkne- 

land. 



Be patient, be patient ; for Patience hatb 

power 
To ward us in danger, like mantle in 

shower ; 
A fairy gift you best may hold 
In a chain of fairy gold ; — 
The chain and the gift are each a true 

token, 
That not without warrant old Noma has 

spoken ; 
But thy nearest and dearest must nevei 

behold them, 
Till time shall accomplish the truths 1 

have told them. — Chap, xxviii. 

MOTTOES. 

CHAP. II. 

'Tis not alone the scene — the man, An- 

selmo, 
The man finds sympathies in these wild 

wastes, 
And roughly tumbling seas, which fairer 

views 
And smoother waves deny him. 

Ancient Drawa. 

CHAP. VII. 

She does no work by halves, yon raving 

ocean, 
Engulpliing those she strangles, her wild 

womb 
Affords the mariners whom she hath dealt 

on, 
Their death at once, and sepulchre. 

Old Play. 

CHAP. I.\. 

This is a gentle trader, and a prudent — 
He's no Autolycus, to blear your eye. 
With quips of worldly gauds and game 

someness : 
But seasons all his glittering merchandise 
With wholesome doctrine suited to the use, 
As men sauce goose with sage and rose- 
mary. — Old Play. 







JMISCELLANEO US POEMS. 



439 



CHAP. XIV. 

We'll keep our customs— what is law itself. 

But old establish'd custom ? What re- 
ligion 
I mean, with one-half of the men that 
use it), 

Save the good use and wont that carries 
them 

To worship how and where their fathers 
worshipp'd ? 

All things resolve in custom — we'll keep 
ours. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XXIX. 

See yonder woman, whom our swains 

revere, 
And dread in secret, while they take her 

counsel 
When sweetheart shall be kind, or when 

cross dame shall die ; 
Where lurks the thief who stole the silver 

tankard. 
And how the pestilent murrain may be 

cured ; 
This sage adviser's mad, stark mad, my 

friend ; 
Yet, in her madness, hath the art and 

cunning 
To wring fools' secrets from their inmost 

bosoms, 
And pay inquirers with the coin they gave 

her.— 0^2' Play. 

CHAP. XXX. 

What ho, my jovial mates ! come on ! 
we'll frolic it 

Like fairies frisking in the merry moon- 
shine, 

Seen by the curtal friar, who, from some 
christening, 

Or some blithe bridal, hies belated cell- 
ward— 

He starts, and changes his bold bottle 
swagger 

To churchman's pace professional, — and, 
ransacking 

His treacherous memory for some holy 
hymn, 

Finds but the roundel of the midnight 
zzXz'n.- Old Play. 

CHAP. XXXIII. 

Parental love, my friend, has power o'er 

wisdom, 
And is the charm, which, like the falconet's 




Can bring from heaven the highest soaring 

spirits. — 
So, when famed Prosper doff'd his magic 

robe, 
It was Miranda pluck'd it from his shoul- 

ders.— OA/ Play. 

CHAP XXXVII. 

Over the mountains, and under the waves, 
Over the fountains, and under the graves, 
Under floods tha^ are deepest. 

Which Neptune obey. 
Over rocks tlial are steepest. 
Love will find out tiie way 

Old Sons. 



ON ETTRICK FORREST'S MOUN 

TAINS DUN. 

1822. 

On Ettrick Forest's mountains dun, 
'Tis blithe to hear the sportsman's gun, 
And seek the heath-frequenting brood 
Far through the noonday solitude; 
By many a cairn and trenched mound, 
Where chiefs ot yore sleep lone and sound, 
And springs, where gray-hair'd shepherds 

tell, 
That still the fairies love to dwell. 

Along the silver streams of Tweed, 
'Tis blithe the mimic fly to lead. 
When to the hook the salmon springs, 
And the line whistles through the rings; 
The boiling eddy see him try, 
Then dashing from the ciurenthigh, 
Till watchful eye and cautious hand 
Have led his wasted strength to land. 

'Tis blithe along the midnight tide, 
With stalwart arm and boat to guide ; 
On high the dazzling blaze to rear. 
And heedful plunge the barbed spear ; 
Rock, wood, and scaur, emerg ng bright 
Fling on the stream their ruddy light. 
And from the bank our band appears 
Like Genii, arm'd with fiery spears. 

'Tis blithe at eve to tell the tale, 
How we succeed and how we fail, 
Whether at Alwyn's* lordly meal. 
Or lowlier board of Ashetiel ; 
While the gay tapers cheerly shine, 
Bickers the fire, and flows the wine— 



• A hvyn, the scat of tlie Lord Somerville. 




1 




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440 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 






Days free from thought, and nights from 


THE MAID OF ISLA, 




My blessing on the Forest fair ! 


AiK — The Plaid of Isla. 










WRITTEN FOR MR. OeoRGE THOMSON'S ' \ 
SCOTTISH MELODIES. 








FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. 


1S22. 






1S22. 


Oh, Maid of Isla, from the cliff, 






Enchantress, farewell, who so oft has 


That looks on troubled wave and sky, 






decoy'd me. 


Dost thou not see yon little skiff 






At the close of the evening through wood- 


Contend with ocean gallantly.^ 






lands to roam, 


Now beating -gamst the breeze and surge, 






Where the forester, lated, with wonder 


And steep'd her leeward deck in foam, 






espied me, 


Why does she war unequal urge ? — 






Explore the wild scenes he was quitting 


Oh, Isla's maid, she seeks her home. 






for home. 








Farewell, and take with thee thy numbers 


Oh, Isla's maid, yon sea-bird mark, 






wild speaking [woe: 


Her white wing gleams through mist and 






The language alternate of rapture and 


spray. 






Oh ! none but some lover whose heartstrings 


Against the storm-cloud, lowering dark, 






are breaking. 


As to the rock she wheels away ; — 






The pang that I feel at our parting can 


Where clouds are dark, and billows rave, 






know. 


Why to the shelter should she come 
Of cliff, exposed to wind and wave.'' — 






Each joy thou couldst double, and when 


Oh, Maid of Isla, 'tis her home 1 






there came sorrow. 








Or pale disappointment, to darken my 


As breeze and tide to yonder skiff. 






way, 


Thou'rt adverse to the suit I bring, 






What voice was like thine, that could sing of 


And cold as is yon wintry cliff. 






to-morrow, 


^ Where sea-birds close their wearied wing. 






Till forgot in the strain was the grief of 


Yet cold as rock, unkind ^s wave. 






to-day ! 


Still, Isla's maid, to thee I come 






But when friends drop around us in life's 


For in thy love, or in his grave. 






weary waning, 


Must Allan Vouj-ich find his home. 






The grief, Queen of Numbers, thou canst 








not tissiia,*^G ' 








Nor the gradual estrangement of those vet 








remaining. 


CARLE, NOW THE KING'S 






The languor of pain, and the chillness of 


COME.* 






age. 


BEING NEW WORDS TO AN AULD SPRING. 






'Twas thou that once taught me, in accents 


1S22. 






bewailing. 
To sing how a warrior lay stretch'd on the 
plain, 
A^nd a maiden hung o'er him with aid un- 
availing, 


The news has flown frae mouth to mouth, 






The North for ance has bang'd the South ; 






The deil a Scotsman's die o" drouth, 






Carle, now the King's come! 






And held to his lips the cold goblet in 


CHORUS. 






vam : * 


Carle, now the King's come ! 






As vain thy enchantments Queen of 


Carle, now the King's come ! 






■-vild Numbers, " 


Thou shalt dance, and I will sing 




' 


To a bard when the reign of his fancy is 
o'er, 
p And the quick pulse of feeling in apathy 
slumbers — 


Carle, now the King's come! 


ilr 




*An imit.ation of an old Jacobite ditty, 




Farewell, then. Enchantress ! I meet thee 
no more! 


written on the avival of George IV. in Scot- 
land, August, 1S22, and printed as a broad' 
s^ide. 




t 


^ JfL 






h 


<• 1 •> t, [ •) 1 


^; 




^^_!I 


(, 1 J i f- J 


_ ^ 








<r^ 




MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



441 



Auld England held him lang and fast ; 

And Ireland had a joyfu' cast , 
But Scotland's turn is come at last — 
Carle, now the King's come! 

Auld Reekie, in her rokelay gray, 
Thought never to have seen the day ; 
He's been a weary time away — 

But, Carle, now the King's come 

She's skirling frae the castle-hill ; 
The Carline's voice is grown sae shrill, 
Ye'll hear her at the Canon-mill — 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

" Up, bairns ! " she cries, " baith grit and 

sma'. 
And busk ye for the weapon-shaw ! 
Stand by me, and we'll bang them a' — 
Carle, now the King's come! 

" Come from Newbattle's ancient spires, 
Bauld Lothian, with your knights and 

squires, 
And match the metal of your sires — 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

" You're welcome hame, my Montagu ! 
Bring in your hand the young Buccleuch; 
I'm missing some that I may rue — 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

" Come, Haddington, the kind and gay, 
You've graced my causeway mony a day ; 
I'll weep the cause if you should stay — 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

"Come, premier Duke,* and carry doun 
Frae yonder craig his ancient croun ; 
It's had a lang sleep and a soun' — 

But, Carle, now the King's come ! 

"Come, Athole, from the hill and wood. 
Bring down your clansmen like a clud ; 
Come, Morton, show the Douglas' blood, — 
Carle, now the King's come I 

"Come, Tweeddale, true as sword to 

sheath. 
Come, Hopetoun, fear'd on fields of 

death ; 
Come, Clerk, f and give your bugle breath ; 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

• The Duke of Hamilton, the premier duke 
of Scotland. 

t The Baron of Pennycuik, bound by his 
tenure to meet the sovereign whenever he or 
she visits Edinburgh at the Harestone, and 
there blow three blasts on a liorn. 



" Come, VVemyss, who modest merit aids, 
Come, Roseberry, Irom Dalmeny shades, 
Breadalbane, bring your belted plaids, 
Carle, now the King's come 1 

" Come, stately Niddne, auld and true, 
Girt with the sword that Minden knew ; 
We have o'er few sucii lairds as you — 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

" King Arthur's grown a common crier, 
He's heard in Fife and far Cantire, — 
' Fie, lads behold my crest of tire ! ' 
Carle, now the King's come 1 

" Saint Abb roars out, ' I see hin^ pass, 
Between Tantallon and the Bass ! ' 
Calton, get out your keeking glass — 
Carle, now the King's come!" 

The Carline stopp'd ; and, sure I am, 
For very glee had ta'en a dwam, 
But Oman | help'd her to a dram. — 
Cogie, now the King's come ! 

Cogie, now the King's come I 
Cogie, now the King's come ! 
I'se be fou and ye's be toom,§ 
Cogie, now the King's come ! 

PART SECOND. 

A Hawick gil! of mountain dew, 
Heised up Auld Reekie's heart, I trov^ 
It minded her of Waterloo — 

Carle, now the King's come ! 

Again I heard her summons swell. 
For, sic a dirdum and a yell. 
It drown'd Saint Giles's jowing bell — 
Carle, now the King's come! 

" My trusty Provost, tried and tight, 
Stand forward for the Good Town's righ^ 
There's waur than you been made 
knight II — 

Carle, now the King's come ! 

" My reverend Clergy, look ye say 
The best of thanksgiving ye ha'e. 
And warstle for a sunny day — 

Carle, now the King's come ! 

*' My Doctors, look that you agree, 
Cure a' the town without a fee ; 

X The landlord of the Waterloo Hotel. 

§ Empty. 

II The Lord Provost had the agreeable sur- 
prise of hearing his health proposed, at the 
civic banquet given to George IV. in the Par- 
liament-House, as " Sir William Arbuthnot 
Bart." 






i— s 




442 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



My Lawyers, dinna pike a plea — 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

" Come forth each sturdy Burgher's bairn, 
That dmts on wood or clanks on airn. 
That fires the o' en, or winds the pirn — 
Carle, now the King's come i 

" Come forward with the Blanket Blue,* 
Your sires were loyal men and true. 
As Scotland's foeinen oft might rue — 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

'' Scots dovvna loup, and rin and rave, 
We're steady folks and something grave, 
We'll keep the causeway firm and brave, 
Carle, now the King's come 1 

" Sii Thomas,! thunder from your rock. 
Till Pentland dinnles wi' the shock. 
And lace wi' fire my snood o' smoke — 
Carle, now the King's come I 

" Melville, bring out your bands of blue, 
A' Louden lads, baith stout and true. 
With Elcho, Hope, and Cockburn, too— 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

" And you, who on yon bluidy braes 
Compell'd the vanquish'd Despot's praise, 
Rank out — rank out — my gallant Greys } — 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

"Cock o' the North, my Huntly bra', 
Where are you with the Forty-twa ? 
Ah ! wae's my heart tliat ye're awa' — 

Carle, now the King's come ! 
" But yonder come my canty Celts, 
With Qurk and pistols at their belts, 
Thank God, we've still some plaids and 
kilts- 
Carle, now the King's come ! 
" Lord, how the pibrochs groan and yell ! 
Macdonnel's ta'en the field himsell, 
Macleod comes branking o'er the fell — 

Carle, now the King's come ! 
" Bend up your bow each Archer spark, 
For you're to guard him light and dark ; 
Faith, lads, for ance ye've hit the mark — 

Carle, now the King's come .' 
" Young Errol, take the sword of state. 
The sceptre, Panie-Morarchate ; 
Knight Mareschal, see ye clear the gate — 
Carle, now the King's come ! 



' A Blue Blanket is the standard of the in- 
corporated trades of Edinburgh. 

t Sir Thomas Bradford, tlien commander of 
the forces in Scotland. 

■t The Scots Grevs. 



" Kind, cummer, Leith, ye've been misset. 
But dinna be upon the fret — 
Ye'se hae the handsel ot him yet, 

Carle, now the King's come ! 

" My daughters, come with een sae blue. 
Your garlands weave, your blossoms strew 
He ne'er saw fairer flowers than you — 
Carle, now the King's come 1 

" What shall we do for the propine— 
We used to offer something fine, 
But ne'er a groat's in pouch of mine — 
Carle, now the King's come-' 

" Deil care— for that I'se never start. 
We'll welcome him with Highland heart; 
Whate'er we have he's get a part — - 

Carle, now the King's come! 
" I'll show him mason-work this day — 
Nane of your bricks of Babel clay, 
But towers shall stand till Time's awa}' — 

Carle, now the King's come 1 

" I'll show him wit, I'll show him lair. 
And gallant lads and lasses fair. 
And what wad kind heart wish for mair .'— 
Cai'.e, now the King's come ! 

" Ste^ out, Sir John,§ of projects rife. 
Come win the thanks of an auld wife. 
And bring him health and length of life — 
Carle, now the King's come ! 



J^uom tl^c (Jfortuius of ^igtl. 

IS22. 
MOTTOES. 

CHAP, XIX. 

By this good light, a wench of matchles 

mettle ! 
This were a leaguer-lass to love a sokUer, 
To bind his wounds, and kiss his bloody 

brow. 
And sing a roundel as she help'd to arm 

him. 
Though the rough foeman's drums were 

beat so nigh. 
They seem'd to bear the burden. 

Old Play. 

§ Sir John Sinclair, Bart., father of the cele- 
brated writer, Catherine Sinclair. 





MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



443 



CHAP. XXII. 

Chance will not do the work — Chance sends 
the breeze ; 

But if the pilot slumber at the helm, 

The very wind that wafts us towards the 
port 

May dash us on the shelves. — The steers- 
man's part is vigilance, 

Blow It or rough or smooth. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XXIV. 

This is the time — heaven's maiden-sentinel 
Hath quitted her high watch — the lesser 

spangles 
Are paling one by one ; give me the 

ladder 
And the short lever — bid .Anthony 
Keep with*liis carabine the wicket-gate ; 
And do thou bare thy knife and follow me, 
For we will in and do it — darkness like 

this 
Is dawning of our fortunes. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XXV. 

Death finds us 'mid our playthings — 

snatches us, 
As a cross nurse might do a wayward 

child. 
From all our toys and baubles. His rough 

call 
Unlooses all our favorite ties on earth ; 
And well if they are such as may be an- 

swer'd 
In vonder world, where all is judged of 
'XrvXy. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XXIX. 

How fares the man on whom good men 

would look 
With eyes where scorn and censure com 

bated. 
But that kind Christian love hath taught 

the lesson — 
That they who merit most contempt and 

hate. 
Do most deserve our pity. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XXXI. 

Marry, come up, sir, with your gentle blood ! 
Here's a red stream beneath his coarse blue 

doublet. 
That warms the heart as kindly as if drawn 
From the fat source ot old Assyrian kings. 
Who first made mankind subject to their 

sway. —Old Play. 



CHAP. XXXV. 

We are not worse at once — the course of 
evil 

Begins so slowly, and from such slight 
source, 

An infant's hand might stem its breach 
with clay ; 

But let the stream get deeper, and philos- 
ophy — 

Ay, and religion too — shall strive in vain 

To turn the headlong torrent. — Old Play. 



(Jfronx |?£W£nl of tlje ^eak. 
1S23. 

MOTTOES. 
CHAP. n. 

Why then, we will have bellowing of 

beeves, 
Broaching of barrels, brandishing of 

spigots ; 
Blood shall flow freely, but it shall be gore 
Of herds and flocks, and venison and 

poultry, 
Join'd to the brave heart's-blood of John- 

a-Barleycorn ! — Old Play. 

CHAP. IV. 

No, sir, — I will not pledge— I'm one of 

those 
Who think good wine needs neither bush 

nor preface 
To make it welcome. If you doubt my 

word. 
Fill the quart-cup, and see if I will choke 

ov:\..— Old Play. 

chap. XVI. 

Ascasto. Can she not speak .' 

Oswald. If speech be only in accented 

sounds, 
Framed by the tongue and lips, the 

maiden's dumb; 
But if by quick and apprehensive look, 
By motion, sign, and glance, to give each 

meaning, 
Express as clothed in language, be term'd 

speech, 
She hath that wondrous faculty ; for her 

eyes, 
Like the bright stars of heaven, can hold 

discourse, 
Though it be mute and soundless. 

Old Play. 




444 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



CHAP. XVII 



This IS a love meeting ? See, the maiden 

mourns, 
And the sad suitor bends his looks on 

earth. 
There's more hath pass'd between them 

than belongs 
To Love's sweet sorrows. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XIX. 

Now, hoist the anchor, mates — and let 

the sails 
Give their broad bosom to the buxom 

wind. 
Like lass that wooes a lover. — Anon. 

CHAP. XXV. 

The course of human life is changeful still 
As is the fickle wind and wandering rill ; 
Or, like the light dance which the wild 

breeze weaves 
Amidst the faded race of fallen leaves ; 
Which now its breath bears down, now 

tosses high. 
Beats to the earth, or wafts to middle sky, 
Such, and so varied, the precarious play 
Of fate with man, frail tenant of a day ! 
Anoftymotts. 

CHAP. XXVI. 

Necessity — thou best of peacemakers. 
As well as surest prompter of invention — 
Help us to composition ! — Anonytnotis . 

CHAP. XXVI. 

This is some creature of the ele- 
ments 

Most like your sea-gull. He can wheel 
and whistle 

His screaming song, e'en when the storm 
is loudest — 

Take for his sheeted couch the restless 
foam 

Of the wild wave-crest — slumber in the 
calm, 

And dally with the storm. Yet 'tis a gull, 

An arrant gull, with all this. — The Chief- 
tain. 

CHAP. XXXI 

I fear the devil worst when gown and 

cassock, 
Or, in the lack of them, old Calvin's cloak, 
Conceals his cloven hoof. — Anonymous. 



1S23. 

SONG— COUNTY GUY. 

Ah ! County Guy, the hour is nigh. 

The sun has left the lea. 
The orange flower perfumes the bower, 

The breeze is on the sea. 
The lark, his lay who thrill'd all day, 

Sits hush'd his partner nigh ; 
Breeze, bird and flower, confess the hour, 

But where is County Guy ? — 

The village maid steals through the shade, 

Her shepherd's suit to hear ; 
To beauty shy, by lattice high. 

Sings high-born Cavalier. 
Tlie star of Love, all stars above,* 

Now reigns o'er earth and sky ; 
kx\A high and low the influence know — 

But where is County Guy .'' — Cha^i. iv. 

MOTTOES. 

CHAP. XII. 

This is a lecturer so skill'd m policy, 
That (no disparagement to Satan's cun- 
ning) 
He well might read a lesson to the devil. 
And teach the old seducer new tempta- 
tions. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XIV. 

I see thee yet, fair France — thou favor'd 

land 
Of art and nature — thou art still before me : 
Thy sons, to whom their labor is a sport. 
So well thy grateful soil returns its tribute; 
Thy sun - burnt daughters, with their 

laughing eyes 
And glossy raven-locks. But, favor'd 

France, 
Thou hast had many a tale of woe to tell, 
In ancient times as now. — Anonymous. 

CHAP. XV. 

He was a son of Egypt, as he told me, 
And one descended from those dreatl 

magicians. 
Who waged rash war, when Israel dwelt 

in Goshen, 
With Israel and her Prophet — matching 

rod 
With his the sons of Levi's — and eiv 

countering 
Jehovah's miracles with incantations. 
Till upon Egypt came the avenging Angel. 





'A 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



445 



And those proud sages wept for their 

first-born, 
As wept the urietter'd peasant. 

Anonytnous. 

CHAP. XXIV. 

Rescue or none, Sir Knight, I am your 
captive ; 

Deal with me what your nobleness sug- 
gests — 

Thinking the chance of war may one day 
place 3'ou 

Where I must now he reckon'd — i' the roll 

Of melancholy prisoners. — Anonymous. 

CHAP. XXV. 

No human quality is so well v/ove 

In warp and woof, but there's some flaw 

in it ; 
I've known a brave man fly a shepherd's 

cur, 
A wise man so demean him, drivelling 

idiocy 
Had well-nigh been ashamed on't. For 

your crafty. 
Your worldly-wise man, he, above the rest, 
Weaves his own snares so fine, he's often 

caught in them. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XXVI. 

When Princes meet, astrologers may 

mark it 
An ominous conjunction, full of boding, 
Like that of Mars with Saturn. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XXIX. 

Thy time is not yet out — the devil thou 

servest 
Has not as yet deserted thee. He aids 
The friends who drudge for him, as the 

blind man 
Was aided by the guide, who lent his 

shoulder 
O'er rough and smooth, until he reach'd 

the brink 
Of the fell precipice — then hurl'd him 

downward. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XXX. 

Our counsels waver like the unsteady bark. 
That reels amid the strife of meeting cur- 
rents.— O/^ Play. 

CHAP. XXXI. 

Hold fast thy truth, young soldier. — 

Gentle maiden, 
Keep you your promise plight — leave age 

its subtleties, 



<:^-+- 



And gray-hair'd policy its maze of false 

hood ; 
But be you candid as the morning sky, 
Ere the high sun sucks vapors up to stain 

it. — The Trial. 



Jfrom St. lionan's SltU. 
1S23. 

EPILOGUE 

to the drama founded on " st, 
ronan's well." 

1S24. 

" After the play, the following humorous 
address (ascribed to an eminent literary char- 
acter) was spoken with infinite effect by Mr. 
Mackay in the character of Meg Dods." — 
Edijtbtirgh Weekly Journal, <)th June, 1824 

Enter Meg Dods, encircled by a crowd of 
tDiruly boys, -whom a Town''s Officer is 
driving off. 

That's right, friend — drive the gaitlings 

back. 
And lend yon muckle ane a whack ; 
Your Embro' bairns are grown a pack 

Sae proud and saucy, 
They scarce will let an auld wife walk 
Upon your causey. 

I've seen the day they would been scaur'd 
\Vi' the Tolbooth, or wi' the Guard, 
Or maybe wud hae some regard 

For Jamie Laing * — 
The Water-hole "f was right well wared 

On sic a gang. 

But whar's the gude Tolbooth \ gane now ? 
Whar's the auld Claught,§ wi' red and blue ? 
Whar's Jamie Laing } and whar's John 
Dog ? II 

And whar's the Weigh-house? 
Deil hae't I see but what is new, 

Except the Playhouse. 

* Jamie Laing, head of the Edinburgh Police 
at that time. 

t Watcli-hole. 

% The Tolbooth was the great Edinburgh Jail, 
pulled down in 1817. 

§ The Claught was the old Town Guard. 

II John Doo, one of the Guard or Police. 




^^ 



446 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Yoursells are changed frae he:id to heel ; 
There's some that gar the causeway reel 
With clashing hufe and rattling wheel, 

And horses canterin', 
Wha's fatiiers daunder'd hame as weel 

Wi' lass and lantern. 

Mysell being in the public line, 

I look, for howfs I kenn'd lang syne, 

VVhar gentles used to drink gude wine, 

And eat cheap dinners ; 
But deil a soul gangs there to dine, 

Of saunts or sinners ! 

Fortune's * and Hunter's gane, alas ' 
And Bayle's is lost in empty space ; 
And now, if folk would splice a brace, 

Or crack a bottle, 
They gang to a new-fangled place 

They ca' a Hotile. 

The deevil hottle them tor Meg. 
They are sae greedy and sae gleg, 
That if ye're served but wi' an egg, 

(And tliat's puir pickin',) 
In comes a chiel, and makes a leg, 

And charges chicken 1 

"And wha may ye be," gin ye speer, 

" That brings your auld-warld clavers here ! " 

Troth, if there's onybody near 

Tliat kens the roads, 
I'll baud ye Burgundy to beer. 

He kens Meg Dods. 

I came a piece frae west o' Currie ; 
And, since I see you're in a hurry. 
Your patience I'll nae langer worry. 

But be sae crouse 
As speak a word for ane Will Murray, 

That keeps this house.t 

Plays are auld-fashion'd things in truth. 
And ye've seen wonders mair uncouth ; 
Yet actors shouldna suffer drouth. 

Or want of dramock. 
Although they speak but wi' their mouth, 

Not with their stamock. 

But ye take care of a' folk's pantry; 
And surely to hae stooden sentry 
Ower this big house (that's far frae rent 
free), 

For a lone sister, 

* Fortune's, Hunter's, and Bayle's were 
taverns. 

t The Edinburgh Theatre. 



Is claim as gude's to be a ventri { — 
How'st ca'd — loquistev. 

Weel, sirs, gude-e'en, and have a care 

The bairns make fun o' Meg nae mair; 

For gin they do, she tells you fair. 
And without tailzie, 

As fure as ever ye sit there, 

She'll tell tlie Bailee. 

MOTTOES. 

CHAP. III. 

There must be government in all society — 

Bees have their Queen, and stag herds have 
their leader ; 

Rome had her Consuls, Athens had her 
Archons, 

And we, sir, have our Managing Com- 
mittee.— 77/t' Album <yf St. Konaii's. 

CH.AP. XI. 

Nearest of blood shall still be next in love ; 

And when I see these happy children 
playing, 

While William gathers flowers for Ellen's 
ringlets. 

And Ellen dresses flies for William's angle. 

I scarce can think, that in advancing life, 

Coldness, unkindness, interest, or sus- 
picion. 

Will e'er divide that unity so sacred. 

Which Nature bound at birth. 

Anonymous. 

CHAP. XXXII. 

It comes — it wrings me in my parting hour, 
The long-hid crime — the well-disguised 

guilt. 
Bring me some holy priest to lay the 

spectre \—Old Play. 

CHAP. XXXV. 

Scdct post equitem air a cura ^ 

Still though the headlong cavalier, 
O'er rough and smooth, in wild careei, 

Seems racing with the wind ; 
His sad companion — ghastly pale, 
And darksome as a widow's veil, 

Care — keeps her seat behind. — Horace. 

CHAP. XXXVIII. 

What sheeted ghost is wandering through 

the storm ? 
For never did a maid of middle earth 



X An allusion lo the recent performances of 
Alexandre, the ventriloquist. 






MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



447 



Choose such a time or spot to vent her 
sorrows. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XXXIX. 

Here come we to our close — for that which 

follows 
Is but the tale of dull, unvaried misery. 
Steep crass and headlong lins may court the 

pencil 
Like sudden haps, dark plots, and strange 

adventures ; 
But who would pahit the dull and fog-wrapt 

moor, 
In its long tract of sterile desolation ? 

Old Play. 



IxQWL ^tirgauntkt. 



1824. 

As lords their laborers' hire delay, 

Fate quits our toil with hopes to come, 

Which, if far short of present pay. 
Still owns a debt and names a sum. 

Quit not the pledge, frail sufferer, then, 
Although a distant date be given ; 

Despair is treason towards man, 
And blasphemy to Heaven. 



LINES 

ADDRESSED TO 

MONSIEUR ALEXANDRE,* 

THE CELEBRATED VENTRILOQUIST. 

1824. 

Of yore, in old England, it was not thought 

good 
To carry two visages under one hood ; 



i, * " When Monsiour Alexandre, the cele- 
brated ventriloquist, was m Scotland, in 1824, 
he paid a visit to Abbotsford, where he enter- 
tained his distinguished host and the otlier 
visitors with his unrivalled imitations. Next 
morning, when he was about to depart, Sir 
Walter felt a good deal embarrassed as to the 
sort of acknowledgment he should offer ; but at 
length, resolving that it would probably be most 
agreeable to the young foreigner to be paid in 
professional coin, if in any, he stepped aside for 
a few minutes, and, on returning, presented him 
with this epigram." The lines were published 
in the Edinbtir^h Annual Rfg-isicr for 1824. 



What should folk say to you ? who have 
faces such plenty. 

That from under one hood you la'Bt night 
shovv'd us twenty ! 

Stand forth, arch deceiver, and tell us in 
truth. 

Are you handsome or ugly, in age or in 
youth 'i 

Man, woman, or child — a dog or a mouse ? 

Or are you at once, each live thing in the 
house ? 

Each live thing did I ask? — each dead im- 
plement, too, 

A workshop in your person, — saw, chisel, 
and screw ! 

Above all, are you one individual 1 I know 

You must be at least Alexandre and Co. 

But I think you're a troop — an assem- 
blage — ^a mob, 

And that I, as the Sheriff, should take up the 
job; 

And instead of rehearsing your wonders m 
verse. 

Must read you the Riot Act, and bid you 
disperse. 



THE DEATH OF KEELDAR. 

These stanzas were written for Hood's 
" Gem," 182S, and accompanied an engraving 
from Cooper's painting of the Death of Keel- 
dar. 

Up rose the sun o'er moor and mead ; 
Up with the sun rose Percy Rede ; 
Brave Keeldar, from his couples freed, 

Career'd along the lea ; 
The palfrey sprung with sprightly bound 
As if to match the gamesome hound ; 
His horn the gallant huntsman wound : 
They were a jovial three I 

Man, hound, or horse, of higher fame, 
To wake the wild deer never came. 
Since Alnwick's Earl pursued the game 

On Cheviot's rueful day ; 
Keeldar was matchless in his speed. 
Than Tarras, ne'er was stauncher steedj 
A peerless archer, Percy ReJe . 

And right dear friends were they. 

The chase engross'd their joys and woes. 
Together at the dawn they rose. 
Together shared the noon's repose, 

By fountain or by stream , 
And oft, when evening skies were red 
The heathjr was their common bed. 






448 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORK'S. 



Where eacn, as wildering fancy led, 

Still hunted in his dream. 
Now is the thrilling moment near, 
Of sylvan hope, and sylvan fear, 
Yon thicket holds the harbor'd deer. 

The signs the hunters know ; — 
With eyes of flame, and quivering ears, 
The brake sagacious Keeldar nears ; 
The restless palfrey paws and rears ; 

The archer strings his bow. 

The game's afoot ! — Halloo ! Halloo ! 
Hunter, and horse, and hound pursue : — 
But woe the shaft that erring flew — 

That e'er it left the string ! 
And ill betide the faithless yew ! 
The stag bounds scathless o'er the dew, 
And gallant Keeldar's life blood true 

Has drench'd the gray goose wing. 

The noble hound — he dies, he dies, 
Death, death has glazed his fixed eyes, 
Stiff on the bloody heath he lies. 

Without a groan or quiver. 
Now day may break and bugle sound, 
And whoop and halloo ring around. 
And o'er his couch the stag may bound, 

But Keeldar sleeps forever. 
Dilated nostrils, staring eyes, 
Mark the poor palfrey's mute surprise, 
He knows not that his comrade dies, 

Nor what is death — but still 
His aspect hatli expression drear 
Of grief and wonder, mix'd with fear. 
Like startled children when they hear 

Some mystic tale of ill. 
But he that bent the fata! bow. 
Can well the sum of evil know, 
And o'er his favorite, bending low, 

In speechless grief recline \ 
Can think he hears the senseless clay 
In unreproachful accents say. 
" The hand that took my life away, 

Dear master, was it thine .' 

" And if it be, the shaft be bless'd. 
Which sure some erring aim address' 
Since in your service prized, caress'd, 

1 in your service die ; 
And you may have a fleeter hound. 
To match the dun-deer's merry boun 
But by your couch wilt ne'er be found 

So true a guard as I." 
And to his last stout Percy rued 
The fatal chance; for when it stood 
'Gainst fearful odds in deadly feud, 

And fell amid the fray, 



E'en with his dying voice he cried, 
" Had Keeldar but been at my side. 
Your treacherous ambush had been spied— 
I had not died to-day ! " 

Remembrance of the erring bow 

Long since had joined the tides which 

flow, 
Conveying human bliss and woe 

Down dark obli\ ion's river ; 
But Art can Time's stern doom arrest, 
And snatch his spoil from Lethe's breast. 
And, in her Cooper's colors drest. 

The scene shall live forever. 



1S25. 

SONG— SOLDIER, WAKE. 
I. 
Soldier, wake — the day is peeping, 
Honor ne'er was won in sleeping, 
Never when the sunbeams still 
Lay unreflected on the hill : 
'Tis when they are glinted back 
From axe and armor, spear and jack, 
That they promise future story 
Many a page of deathless glory. 
Shields that are the foeman's terror. 
Ever are the rnorning's mirror. 



Arm and up — the morning beam 
Hath called the rustic to his team. 
Hath call'd the falc'ner to the lake. 
Hath call'd the liiintsman to the break; 
The early student ponders o'er 
His dusty tomes of ancient lore. 
Soldier, wake — thy harvest, fame ; 
Thy study, conquest ; war, thy game. 
Shield, that would be foeman's terror, 
Still should gleam the morning's mirror 



Poor hire repays the rustic's pain; 
More paltry still the sportsman's gain ; 
Vainest of all, the student's theme 
Ends in some metaphysic dream : 
Yet each is up, and each has toil'd 
Since first the peep of dawn has smiled ,* 
And each is eagerer in his aim 
Than he who barters life for fame. 
Up, up, and arm thee, son of terror ! 
Be thy bright shield the morning's mirror. 
Chap, xiv 






MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



449 



SONG— THE TRUTH OF WOMAN, 
I 

Woman's faith, and woman's trust — 
Write the characters in dust : 
Stamp them on the running stream, 
Print them on the moon's pale beam, 
And each evanescent letter 
Shall be clearer, firmer, better, 
And more permanent, 1 ween, 
Than the thing those letters mean. 

II. 
,1 have strain'd the spider's thread 
'Gainst the promise of a maid; 
I have weigh'd a grain of sand 
'Gainst her plight of heart and hand ; 
I told my true love of the token. 
How her faith proved light, and her word 

was broken : 
Again her word and trutli she plight, 
And I believed them again ere night. 

Chap. XX. 

MOTTOES. 

CHAP. II. 

In Madoc's tent the clarion sounds, 
With rapid clangor hurried far; 

Each hill and dale the note rebounds, 
But when return the sons of war! 

Thou, born of stern Necessity, 

Dull Peace ! the valley inelds to thee, 
And owns thy melancholv swav. 

" Welsh Poem. 

CHAP. VII. 

O, sadly shines the morning sun 

On leagur'd castle wall, 
When bastion, tower, and battlement, 

Seem nodding to their fall. — Old Ballad. 

CHAP. XII. 

Now all ye ladies of fair Scotland, 

And ladies of England that happy would 
prove. 
Marry never for houses, nor marry for land, 
Nor marry for nothing but only love. 
Family Quarrels. 

CHAP. XIII. 

Too much rest is rust. 

There's ever cheer in changing ; 
We tyne by too much trust. 

So we'll be up and ranging. — Old Song. 

CHAP. XVII. 

Ring out the merry bells, the bride ap- 
proaches ; 



The blush upon her cheek has shamed the 

morning, 
For that is dawning palely. Grant, good 

saints, 
These clouds betoken naught of evil omen ! 
Old Play. 

CHAP. XXVI'. 

Julia. Gentle sir, 

You are our captive — but we'll use you so. 
That you shall think your prison joys may 

match 
VVhate'er your liberty hath known of 

pleasure. 
Roderick. No, fairest, we have trifled 

here too long ; 
And, lingering to see your roses blossom, 
I've let my laurels wither. — Old Play. 



(from Ik Calisman. 
1825. 

AHRIMAN. 

Dark Ahriman, whom Irak still 
Holds origin of woe and ill ! 

When bending at thy shrine. 
We view the world with troubled eye. 
Where see we 'neath the extended sky, 

An empire matching thine ! 

If the Benigner Power can yield 
A fountain in the desert field, 

Where weary pilgrims drink ; 
Thine are the waves that lash the rock, 
Thine the tornado's deadly shock, 

Where countless navies sink ! 

Or if He bid the soil dispense 
Balsams to cheer the sinking sense, 

How few can they deliver 
From lingering pains, or pang intense. 
Red Fever, spotted Pestilence, 

The arrovv's of thy quiver 1 

Chief in Man's bosom sits thy swa}'. 
And frequent, while in words we pray 

Before another throne, 
Whate'er of specious form be there, 
The secret meaning of the prayer 

Is, Ahriman, thine own. 

Say, hast thou feeling, sense, and form, 
Thunder thy voice, thy garments storm, 

As Eastern Magi say ; 
With sentient soul of hate and wrath, 
And wings to sweep thy deadly path. 

And fangs to tear thy prey ? 





45° 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Or art thou mix'd in Nature's source, 
An ever operating force, 

Converting good to ill ; 
An evil principle innate 
Contending with our better fate, 

And, oh ! victorious still ? 

Howe'er it be, dispute is vain, 

On all without thou hold"st thy reign, 

Nor less on all within ; 
Each mortal passion's fierce career, 
Love, hate, ambition, joy, and fear, 

Thou goadest into sin. 

Whene'er a sunny gleam appears, 
To brighten up our vale of tears. 

Thou art not distant far ; 
'Mid such brief solace of our lives. 
Thou whett'st our very banquet-knives 

To tools of death and war. — 

Thus, from the moment of our birth, 
Long as we linger on the earth, 

Thou rul'st the fate of men ; 
Thine are the pangs of life's last hour, 
And— who dare answer ?— is thy power, 

Dark Spirit I ended Then '>.—Chap. iii. 

SONG OF BLONDEL— THE 
BLOODY VEST. 

'TWAS near fhe fair city of Benevent, 
When the sun was setting on bough and 

bent, 
And knights were preparing in bower and 

tent. 
On the eve of the Baptist's tournament ; 
When m Lincoln green a stripling gent, 
Well seeming a page by a princess sent, 
Wander'd the camp, and, still as he went, 
Enquired for the Englishman, Thomas a 

Kent. 

Far hath he fared, and farther must fare. 
Till he finds his pavilion nor stately nor 

rare, — 
Little save iron and steel was there ; 
And, as lacking the coin to pay armorer's 

care, 
With his sinewy arms to the shoulders 

bare, 
The good knight with hannner and file 

did repair 
The mail that to-morrow must see him 

wear, 
For the honor of Saint John and his lady 

fair. 



" Thus speaks my lady," the page said he. 
And the knight bent lowly both head and 

knee, 
" She is Benevent's Princess so high in 

degree. 
And thou art as lowly as knight may well 

be- 
ll e that would climb so lofty a tree, 
Or spring such a gulf as divides her from 

thee. 
Must dare seme high deed, by which all 

men may see 
His ambition is back'd by his high chi- 

valrie. 

" Therefore thus speaks my lady," tlie fair 

page he said. 
And tiie knight lowly louted with hand 

and with head, 
" Fling aside the good armor in which 

thou art clad. 
And don thou this weed of her night-gear 

instead. 
For a hauberk of steel, a kirtle of thread : 
And charge, thus attired, in the tourna- 
ment dread. 
And fight as thy wont is where most 

blood is shed. 
And bring honor away, or remain with 

the dead." 

Untroubled in his look, and untroubled in 
his breast. 

The knight the weed hath taken, and 
reverently hath kiss'd : 

" Now blessed be the moment, the messen- 
ger be blest ! 

Much honor'd do I hold me in -ray lady's 
high behest ; 

And say unto my lady, in this dear night- 
weed dress'd, 

To the best arm'd champion I will not 
vail my crest ; 

But if I live and bear me well 'tis her turn 
to take the test." 

Here, gentles, ends the foremost fytte of 
the Lay of the bloody Vest. 

FYTTE SECOND. 

The Baptist's fair morrow beheld gallant . 

feats — 
There was winning of honor, and losing 

of seats — 
There was hewing with falchions, and 

splintering with staves, 
The victors won glory, the vanquish'd 

won craves. 





MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



451 



O, many a knight there fought bravely 

and well, 
Yet one was accounted his peers to excel, 
And 'twas he whose sole armoi on body 

and breast, 
Seem'd the weed of a damsel when boime 

for her rest. 

There were some dealt him wounds that 

were bloody and sore, 
But others respected his plight, and for- 
bore. 
•' It is some oath of honor," they said, 

" and I trow 
'Twere unknightly to slay him achieving 

his vow." 
Then the Prince, for his sake, bade the 

tournament cease. 
He flung down his warder, the trumpets 

sung peace ; 
And the judges declare, and competitors 

yield. 
That the Knight of the Night-gear was 

first in the field. 

The feast it was nigh, and the mass it was 

nigher. 
When before the fair Princess low louted 

a squire. 
And deliver'd a garment unseetnly to 

view, 
With sword-cut and spear-thrust, all 

hack'd and pierced through ; 
All rent and all tatter'd, all clotted with 

blood. 
With foam of the horses, with dust, and 

with mud. 
Not the point of that lady's small finger, 

I ween, 
Could have rested on spot was unsullied 

and clean. 

" This token my master, Sir Thomas a 

Kent, 
Restores to the Princess of fair Benevent : 
He tliat climbs the tall tree has won right 

to the fruit, 
He that leaps the wide gulf should prevail 

in his suit ; 
Through life's utmost peril the prize I 

have won, 
And now must the faith of my mistress be 

shown : 
For she who prompts knight on such 

danger to run. 
Must avouch his true service in front of 

the sun. 



" ' I restore,' says my master, ' the garment 

I've worn, 
And I claim of the Princess to don it in 

turn ; 
For its stains and its rents she should prize 

it the more. 
Since by shame 'tis unsullied, though crim- 

son'd with s.ore.' " 
Then deep blusn'd the Princess — yet kiss'd 

she and press'd 
The blood-spotced robe to her lips and her 

breast. 
"Go tell my true knight, church and cham- 
ber shall show, 
If I value the blood on this garment or 

no." 

And when it was time for the nobles to 

pass 
In solemn procession to minster and mass, 
The first walk'd the Princess in purple and 

pall. 
But the blood-besmear'd night-robe she wore 

over all ; 
And eke, in the hall, where they all sat at 

dine. 
When she knelt to her father and proffer'd 

the wine. 
Over all her rich robes and state jewels she 

wore, 
That wimple unseemly bedabbled with 

gore. 

Then lords whisper'd ladies, as well you 

may think, 
And ladies replied, with nod, titter, and 

wink ; 
And the Prince, who in anger and shame 

had look'd down, 
Turn'd at length to his daughter, and spoke 

with a frown : 
" Now since thou hast publish'd thy folly 

and guilt ; 
E'en atone with thy hand for the blood thou 

has spilt; 
Yet sore for thy boldness you both will 

repent, 
When you wander as exiles from fair Bene- 
vent." 

Then out spoke stout Thomas, in hall where 

he stood. 
Exhausted and feeble, but dauntless of 

mood : 
" The blood that I lost for this daughter of 

thine, 
I pour'd forth as freely as flask gives its 

wine: 



iU^ 



452 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 




And if for my sake she brooks penance and 

blame, 
Do not doubt I will save her from suffering 

and shaiue ; 
And light will she reck of thy princedom and 

rent, 
When 1 hail her, in England, the Countess 

of Kent."— C/^rt/. xxvi. 

MOTTOES. 

CHAP. :x. 

This is the Prince of Leeches ; fever, 

plague, 
Cold rheum, and hot podagra, do but look 

on him. 
And quit their grasp upon the tortured 
sinews. — Anonymous. 

CH.\P. XIII. 

You talk of Gayety and Innocence ! 
The moment when the fatal fruit was 

eaten. 
They parted ne'er to meet again ; and 

Malice 
Has ever since been playmate to light 

Gayety, 
From the first moment when the smiling 

infant 
Destroys the flower or butterfly he toys 

with. 
To the laf.t chuckle of the dying miser. 
Who on his deathbed laughs his last to 

hear 
His wealthy neighbor has become a bank- 
rupt.— OA/ Play. 

CHAP. XVI. 

'Tis not her sense — for sure, in that 
There's nothing more than common ; 

And all her wit is only chat. 
Like any other woman. — Song. 

CHAP. XVJI. 

Were every hair upon his head a life, 
And every life were to be supplicated 
By nimibers equal to those hairs quad- 
rupled. 
Life after life should out like waning stars 
Before the daybreak — or as festive lamps, 
Which have lent lustre to the midnight 

revel, 
Each after each are quench'd when guests 
depart \—Old Play. 

CHAP. XX. 

When beauty leads the lion in her toils, 
Such are her charms, he dare not raise his 
mane. 



Far less expand tlie terror of his fangs. 
So great Alcides made his club a distaff, 
And spun to please fair Omphale. 

Anonymous. 

CHaP. XXIII. 

'Mid these wild scenes Enchantment waves 

her hand 
To change the face of the mysterious land, 
Till the bewildering scenes around us seem 
The vain productions of a feverish dream. 
Astolpho, a Romance. 

CHAP. XXVI. 

The tears I shed must ever fall I 
I weep not for an absent swain. 

For time may happier hours recall. 
And parted lovers meet again. 

I weep not for the silent dead, 

Their pains are past, their sorrows o'er, 
And those that loved their steps must tread 

When death shall join to part no more. 

But worse than absence, worse than death , 
She wept her lover's sullied fame, 

And, fired with all the pride of birth, 
She wept a soldier's injured name. 

Ballad, 



INSCRIPTION 

FOR THE MONUMENT OF THE 
REV. GEORGE SCOTT. 

1S30. 

To youth, to age, alike, this tablet pale 
Tells the brief moral of its tragic tale. 
Art thou a parent ? — Reverence this bier — 
The parents' fondest hopes lie buried here. 
Art thou a youth, prepared on life to start, 
With opening talents and a generous heart. 
Fair hopes and flattering prospects all thine 

own ? 
Lo ! here their end — a monumental stone ! 
But let submission tame each sorrowing 

thought, 
Heaven crown'd its champion ere the fight 

■was fought. 



THE FORAY. 

1S30. 

The last of our steers on our board has 

been spread. 
And the last flask of wine in our goblet is 
red ; 






MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



453 



Up ! up, my brav? kinsmen ! belt swords, 

and begone ! — 
There are dangers to dare, and there's spoil 

to be won. 

The eyes, that so lately mix'd glances with 

ours, 
For a space must be dim, as they gaze from 

the towers. 
And strive to distinguish through tempest 

and gloom, 
The prance of the steed, and the toss of the 

plume. 

The rain js descending, the wind rises 

loud ; 
And the moon her red beacon has veii'd with 

a cloud ; 
*Tis the better, my mates! for the warder's 

dull eye 
Shall in confidence slumber, nor dream we 

are nigh 

Our steeds are impaiient ! I hear my blithe 
Graj' ! 

There is life in his hoof-clang, and hope in 
bis neigh ; 

Like the flash of a meteor, the glance of his 
mane 

Shall marshal your march through the dark- 
ness and rain. 

The drawbridge has dropped, the bugle has 

blown ; 
One pledge is to quaff yet — then mount and 

begone ! — 
To their honor and peace, that shall rest 

with the slam ! 
To their health and their glee, that see 

Teviot again I 



(from ^oobslotk. 

MOTTOES. 

CHAP. II. 

Come forth, old man— Thy daughter's 
side 
Is now the fittin? place for thee: 
When time hath quell'd the oak's bold 

pride. 
The youthful tendril yet may hide 
The ruins of the parent tree. 

CHAP. IV. 

Yon path of greensward 
Winds round by sparry grot and gay 
pavilion : 



There is no flint to gall thy tender foot, 
There's ready shelter from each breeze or 

shower. — 
But duty guides not that way — see her 

stand, 
With wand entwined with amaranth, near 

yon cliffs. 
Oft where she leads thy blood must mark 

thy footsteps, 
Oft where she leads thy head must bear 

the storm, 
And thy shrunk form endure heat, cold 

and hunger , 
But she will guide thee up to noble 

heights, 
Which he who gains seems native of the 

sky, 
While earthly things he stretch'd beneath 

his feet, 

Dimimsh'd, shrunk, and valueless 

Anonymous. 

CHAP. X. 

Here we have one head 

Upon two bodies — your two-headed bul- 
lock 

Is but an ass to such a prodigy. 

These two have but one meaning, thought, 
and counsel , 

And when the single noddle has spoke 
out. 

The four legs scrape assent to it. 

Old Play. 

CHAP XIV 

Deeds are done on earth 
Which have their punishment ere the earth 

closes 
Upon the perpetrators. Beit the working 
Of the remorse-stirr'd fancy, or the vision. 
Distinct and real, of unearthly being. 
All ages witness, that beside the couch 
Of the fell homicide oft stalks the ghost 
Of him lie slew, and shows the shadowy 

wound. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XXIV 

The deadhest snakes are those which 
twined mongst lowers. 

Blend their bright coloring with the 
varied blossoms. 

Their fierce eyes gl.ttermg like the span- 
gled dewdrop , 

In all so like what nature has most harm- 
less, 

That sportive innocence, which dreads nn 
danger, 

Is poison'd unawares. — Old Play. 



^ - 



r 


1—5 r~ 










<. 


.) 1 — 






1 






<• •) 


.,<^. H", 


- IvN 






1 r* 


454 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 






GLEE FOR KING CHARLES. 


Jfrom i\t Jair Paib of f crlj?. 






Bring the bowl which you boast, 


MOTTO. 






^■i Fill it up to the brim ; 


t) Ij 






* 'Tis to him we love most, | 


CHAP. I. * 






And to all who love him. ' 1 








Brave gallants, stand up, 


" Behold the Tiber ! " the vain Roman 






And avaunt, ye base carles ! 


cried, 






Were there death in the cup, 


Viewing the ample Tay from Baiglie's side," 






Here's a health to King Charles ! 


But Where's the Scot that would the vaunt 
repay, 






Though he wanders through dangers, 


And hail the puny Tiber for the Tay ? 






Unaided, unknown. 


Ano7iymoiis. 






Dependent on strangers. 








Estranged from his own ; 


THE LAY OF POOR LOUISE. 






Though 'tis under our breath, 








Amidst forfeits and perils, 
Here's to honor and faith, 


Ah, poor Louise ! The livelong day 
She roams from cot to castle gay ; 






And a health to King Charles ! 


And still her voice and viol say. 








Ah, maids, beware tlie woodland way, 






Let such honors abound 


Think on Louise. 






As the time can afford. 
The knee on the ground, 

And the hand on the swoKd ; 
But the time shall come round, 

When 'mid Lords, Dukes, and Earls, 


Ah, poor Louise ! The sun was high. 
It smirch'd her cheek, it dinim'd her eye. 
The woodland walk was cool and nigh, 
Where birds with chiming streamlets vie 

To cheer Louise. 






The loud trumpets shall sound, 






Here's a health to King Charles ! 


Ah, poor Louise ! The savage bear 






Chap. XX. 


Made ne'er that lovely grove his lair ; 
Tlie wolves molest not paths so fair — 
But better far had such been there 






ONE HOUR WITH THEE. 


For poor Louise; 






An hour with thee ! — When earliest day 


.\h, poor Louise ! In woody wold 






Dapples with gold the eastern gray, 


She met a huntsman fair and bold ; 






Oh, what can frame my mind to bear 


His baldric was of silk and gold, 






The toil and turmoil, cark and care. 


And many a witching tale he told 






New griefs, whicli coming hours unfold, 


To poor Louise. 






And sad remembrance of the old ? 








One hour with thee ! 


k\\, poor Louise ! Small cause to pine 
Hadst thou for treasures of the mine ; 






One hour with thee !— When burning June 


For peace of mind, that gift divine. 






Waves his red flag at pitch of noon ; 


And spotless innocence, were thine, 






What shall repay the faithful swain. 


."^h, poor Louise 1 






His labor on the sultry plain ; 








And more than cave or sheltermg bough, 


Ah, poor Louise ! Thy treasure's reft! 






Cool feverish blood, and throbbing brow ? — 


I know not if by force or theft. 






One hour with thee ! 


Or part by violence, part by gift ; 
But misery is all that's left 






One hour with thee ! — When sun is set, 


To poor Louise. 






0, what can teach me to forget 








The thankless labors of the day ; 


Let poor Louise some succor have ! 






The hopes, the wishes, flung away ; 


She will not long your bounty crave. 




«■ 


r* The increasing wants and lessening gains, 


Or tire the gay with warnjng stave^ .■^ (^ 






The master's pride, who scorns my pains? — 


For Heaven has grace, and earth a grave 






One hour with thee ! 


For poor Louise 






Chap. XX vi. 


Chap. X. 




t 






•) 


C [ •) 


it 

^5; 






^ — 


s-\ 


•> 


(. 1 '^ 


-^ -y 




1 




Glee foe King Ciiai;les. — Fa tie 454. 




MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



455 



CHANT OVER THE DEAD. 

Viewless Essence, thin and bare, 
Well-nigh melted into air : 
Still with fondness hovering near 
The earthly form thou once didst wear. 

Pause upon thy pinion's flight, 
Be thy course to left or right ; 
Be thou doom'd to soar or sink, 
Pause upon the av/ful brink. 

To avenge the deed expelling 
riiee untimely from thy dwelling, 
Mystic force thou shalt retain 
O'er the blood and o'er the brain. 

When the forna thou shalt espy 
That darken'd on thy closing eye J 
When the footstep thou shalt hear. 
That thrill'd upon thy dying ear ; 

Then strange sympathies shall wake, 

The flesh shall thrill, the nerves shall 

quake ; 
The wounds renew their clotter'd flood, 
A.nd every drop cry blood for blood. 

Chap. xxii. 

YES, THOU MAY'ST SIGH. 

Yes, thou may'st sigh, 
And look once more at all around, 
At stream and bank, and sky and ground, 
Thy life its final course has found, 

And thou must die. 

Yes, lay thee down, 
And while thy struggling pulses flutter, 
Bid the gray monk his soul mass mutter 
And the deep bell its death-tone utter — 

Thy life is gone. 

Be not afraid. 
'Tis but a pang, and then a thrill, 
A fever fit, and then a chill ; 
And then an end of human ill. 

For thou art dead. — Chap. xxx. 

OH, BOLD AND TRUE. 

Oh, bold and True, 

In bonnet blue, 

Tliat fear or falsehood never knew ; 
Whose heart was loyal to his word, 
Whose hand was faithful to his sword — 
Seek Europe wide from sea to sea, 
But bonny Blue-cap still for me I 



I've seen Almain's proud champions 

prance — 
Have seen the gallant knights of France, 
Unnvall'd with the sword and lance — 
Have seen the sons of England true 
Wield the brown bill, and bend the yew, 
Search France the fair and England free, 
But bonny Blue-cap still for me! 

Chap. xxxiL 



tl^rom ^luic of %mx%\tm. 

MOTTOES. 

CHAP. V. 

I WAS one 

Who loved the greenwood bank and low- 
ing herd, 
The russet prize, the lowly peasant's life, 
Season'd with sweet content, more than 

the halls 
Where revellers feast to fever-height. Be 

lieve me, 
There ne'er was poison mixd in maple 
bowl. — Aitotiyvioiis . 

CHAP. .X. 

We know not when we sleep nor when we 

wake. 
Visions distmct and perfect cross our eye, 
Which to the slumberer seem realities ; 
And while they waked, some men have 

seen such sights 
As set at nought the evidence of sense, 
And left them well persuaded they were 

dreaming. — Anonymous, 

CHAP. XI. 

These be the adept's doctrines — every ele- 
ment 

Is peopled with its separate race of 
spirits. 

The airy Sylphs on the blue ether float ; 

Deep in the earthy cavern skulks the 
Gnome ; 

The sea-green Naiad skims the ocean 
billow. 

And the fierce fire is yet a friendly home 

To its peculiar sprite — the Salamander. 

Anonymous. 

CHAP. XXII. 

Tell me not of it — I coidd ne'er abide 
The mummery of all that forced civility. 
" Pray, soat yourself, my lord." With 
cringing liams 




456 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The speech is spoken, and, with bended 

knee. 
Heard by the smiling courtier. — " Before 

you, sir ? 
It must be on the earth then." Hang it 

all ! 
The pride which cloaks itself in such poor 

fashion 
US scarcely lit to swell a beggar's bosom. 
Old Play. 

CHAP. XXX. 

Ay, this is he who wears the wreath of 

bays 
Wove by Apollo and the Sisters Nine, 
Which Jove's dread lightning scathes not. 

He hath doft 
The cumbrous helm of steel, and flung 

aside 
The yet more galling diadem of gold ; 
While, with a le'afy circlet round his brows, 
He reigns the King of Lovers and of Poets. 

CHAP. XXXI. 

Want you a man 

Experienced in the world and its affairs 1 
Here he is for your purpose. He's a monk. 
He hath forsworn the world and all its 

work 
The rather that he knows it passing well. 
Special the worst of it ; for he's a monk. 
Old Play. 

CHAP. XXXIII. 

Toll, toll the bell ! 

Greatness is o'er, 
The heart has broke, 
To ache no more; 
An unsubstantial pageant all — 
Drop o'er the scene the funeral-pall. 

Old Poem. 

CHAP. XXXV. 

Here's a weapon now. 

Shall shake a conquering general in his 
tent, 

A monarch on his throne, or reach a prel- 
ate, 

However holy be his offices. 

E'en while he serves the altar. — Old Play. 

SONG OF THE JUDGES OF THE 
SECRET TRIBUNAL. 

Measurers of good and evil, 

Bring the square, the line, the level, — 

Rear the altar, dig the trench. 

Blood both stone and ditch shall drench. 



Cubits six, from end to end. 
Must the fatal bench extend, — 
Cubits six, from side to side, 
Judge and culprit must divide. 
On the east the Court assembles, 
On the west the Accused trembles — 
Answer, brethren, all and one, 
Is the ritual rightly done ? 
Anszve7-. 
On life and soul, on blood and bone, 
One for all, and all for one. 
We warrant this is rightly done. 

Judges. 
How wears the night ? — Doth morning shine 
In early radiance on the Rhine .'' 
What music floats upon his tide ? 
Do birds the tardy morning chide.'' 
Brethren, look out from hill and height. 
And answer true, How wears the night.' 

Answer. 
The night is old ; on Rhine's broad breast 
Glance drowsy stars which long to rest. 

No beams are twinkling in the east. 
There is a voice upon the flood, 
The stern still call of blood for blood : 

'Tis time we listen the behest. 
Chorics. 
Up, then, up ! When day's at rest, 

'Tis time that such as we are 
watchers ; 
Rise to judgment, brethren, rise! 
Vengeance knows not sleepy eyes. 

He and night are matchers. 

Chap. XX. 



dfrom Count Robert of ^aris. 

MOTTOES. 

CHAP. VI. 

V.AiN man, thou may'st esteem thy love as 
fair 

As fond hyperboles suffice to raise. 

She may be all that's matchless in her per- 
son, 

And all-divine in soul to match her body; 

But take this from me — thou shalt never 
call her 

Superior to her sex, while one survives 

And I am her true votary.— 0/ia' Play. 

CHAP. XVI. 

Strange ape of man ! who loathes thee 

while he scorns thee : 
Half a reproach to us and half a jest. 










/C- — 


t_j 


1 


.^ z^^^^ 


^^n>\ 


1 
J 






\ a" c l-n 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 457 


J L 

1 r 




What fancies can be ours ere we have 

pleasure 
In viewing our own form, our pride and 

passions, 
Reflected in a shape grotesque as thine 1 
Anonymous. 

CHAP. XVII. 

'Tis strange that, in the dark sulphureous 
mine, 

Where wild ambition piles its ripening 
stores 

Of slumbering thunder, Love will interpose 

His tiny torch, and cause the stern ex- 
plosion 

To burst, when the deviser's least aware. 
A>ionymo7is. 

CH.AP. XXV. 

Heaven knows its time; the bullet has its 
billet. 

Arrow and javelin each its destined pur- 
pose, 

The fated beasts of Nature's lower strain 

Have each their separate task. — 0/d Play. 


That shuns the approach of morn and the 

young sun .? 
Or hath he wrapped him in Cimmerian 

darkness. 
And pass'd beyond the circuit of the sight 
With things of the night's-shadows ? 

AnoiiyinoJts. 

CHAP. XIV. 

The way is long, my children, long and 

rough — 
The moors are dreary and the woods are 

dark ; 
But he that creeps from cradle on to grave, 
Unskill'd save in the velvet course of 

fortune. 
Hath missed the discipline of noble hearts. 
Old Play. 

CHAP. XVIII. 

His talk was of another world — his bodi- 

ments 
Strange, doubtful, and mysterious ; those 

who heard him 
Listen'd as to a man in feverish dreams, 
Who speaks of other objects than the 

present, 
And mutters like to him who sees a vision. 
Old Play. 


Or 

J U 


<|[rom €aBtle ganger. 

MOTTOES. 

CHAP. XI. 

HERE is he.i> Has the deep earth swal- 
lowed him ? 
hath he melted like some airy phantom 


W . 


<y 9 _ 


ft p 


. '^'J 


V. - 


b t ^ 


« h^ 


— ^ 


1 




FRAGMENTS, 



OF VERY EARLY DATE. 



BOTHWELL CASTLE. 

1799. 
When fruitful Clydesdale's apple bowers 

Are mellowing in the noon ; 
When sighs round Pembroke's ruin'd 
towers 
The sultry breath of June; 

When Clyde, despite his sheltering wood, 

Must leave his channel dry ; 
And vainly o'er tiie limpid flood 

The angler guides his fly ; 

If chance by Bothwell's lovely braes 

A wanderer thou hast been. 
Or hid thee from the summer's blaze 

In Blantyre"s bowers of green, 

Full where the copsewood opens wild 

Thy pilgrim step hath staid. 
Where Bothwell's towers, in ruin piled, 

O'erlook the verdant glade ; 

And many a tale of love and fear 
Hath mingled with the scene — 

Of Bothwell's banks that bloom'd so dear, 
And Bothwell's bonny Jean. 

O, if with rugged minstrel lays 

Unsated be thy ear. 
And thou of deeds of other days 

Another tale wilt hear — 

Then all beneath the spreading beech, 

Flung careless on the lea. 
The Gothic muse the tale shall teach 

Of Bothwell's sisters three. 

Wight Wallace stood on Deckmont head. 

He blew his bugle round. 
Till the wild bull in Cadyow wood 

Has started at the sound. 

St. Georges cross, o'er Bothwell, 

Was waving far and wide, 
And from the lofty turret flung 

In crimson blaze on Clyde; 

And rising at the bugle blast 

That mark'd the Scc'.;!sh foe, 
Old England's yeomen muster'd fast 

And bent the Norman bow. 
(458) 



Tall in the midst Sir Aylmer rose. 

Proud Pembroke's Earl was he — 
While ###**#♦ 



THE SHEPHERD'S TALE. 

1799. 
»♦**#* 
And ne'er but once, my son, he says, 

Was yon sad cavern trod. 
In persecution's iron days. 

When the land was left by God. 

From Bewlie bog. with slaughter red, 

A wanderer hither drew. 
And oft he stopt and turned his head, 

As by fits the night wind blew ; 

For trampling round by Cheviot edge 
Were heard the troopers keen. 

And frequent from the Whitelaw ridge 
The death-shot flash'd between. 

The moonbeams through the misty shower 

On yon dark cavern fell ; 
Through the cloudy night the snow gleam'd 
white. 

Which sunbeam ne'er could quell. 

" Yon cavern dark is rough and rude. 

And cold its jaws of snow ; 
But more rough and rude are the men of 
blood 

That hunt my life below. 

" Yon spell-bound den, as the aged tell. 

Was hewn by demon's hands ; 
But I had lourd* melle with the fiend sof 
hell, 

Than with Clavers and his band." 

He heard the deep-mouth'd bloodhound 
bark, 

He heard the horse's neigh. 
He plunged him in the cavern dark, 

And downward sped his way. 

Now faintly down the winding path 
Came tlie cry of the faulting hound, 

And the mutter'd oath of balked wrath 
Was lost in hollow sound. 

* Lourd : i. e., liefer — rather. 





^ 



SFk 



FRAGMENTS. 



459 



He threw him on the flinted floor, 

And held his breath for fear; 
He rose and bitter cursed his foes, 

As the sounds died on his ear. 

■' O bare thine arm, thou battling Lord, 

For Scotland's wandering band ; 
Dash from the oppressor's grasp the 
sword, 

And sweep him from the land ! 
"Forget not thou thy people's groans 

From dark Dunnotter's tower. 
Mixed with the sea-fowl's shrilly moans, 

And ocean's bursting roar ! 

" O, in fell Clavers' hour of pride, 

Even in his mightiest day, 
As bold he stiides through conquest's tide, 

O stretch him on the clay ! 
" His widow and hi<; little ones, 

O may their tower of trust 
Remove its strong foundation stones, 

And crush them in the dust ! " — 
" Sweet prayers to me," a voice replied. 

Thrice welcome guest of mine ! " 
And glimmering on the cavern side, 

A light was seen to shine. 
An aged man, in amice brown. 

Stood by the wanderer's side, 
By powerful charm, a dead man's arm 

The torch's light supplied. 

From each stiff finger stretch' d upright, 

Arose a ghastly flame, 
That waved not in the blast of light 

Which through the cavern came. 

O, deadly blue was that taper's hue 

That flamed the cavern o'er ; 
But more deadly blue was the ghastly hue 

Of his eyes, who the taper bore. 
He laid on his head a hand like lead, 

As heavy, pale, and cold — 
" Vengeance be thine, thou guest of mine. 

If thy heart be firm and bold. 

" But if faint thy heart, the caitiff fear 

Thy recreant sinews know. 
The mountain erne thy heart shall tear, 

Thy nerves the hooded crow." 
The wanderer raised him undismay'd : 

" My soul, by dangers steel'd, 
Is stubborn as my border blade, 

Which never knew to yield. 

"And if thy power can speed the hour 

Of vengeance on my foes. 
Theirs be the fate from bridge and gate. 

To feed the hooded crows." 



The Brownie looked him in the face. 
And his color fled with speed — 

" I fear me," quoth he, " uneath it will be 
To match thy word and deed. 

" In ancient days when English bands 

Sore ravaged Scotland fair, 
The sword and shield of Scottish land 

Was valiant Haibert Kerr. 

" A warlock loved the warrior well, 

Sir Michael Scott by name. 
And he sought for his sake a spell to make. 

Should the Southern foeman tame. 

" * Look, thou,' he said, ' from Cessford head, 

As the July sun sinks low, 
And when glimmering white on Cheviot's 
height 
Thou shalt spy a wreath of snow. 
The spell is complete which shall bring to 
thy feet 
The haughty Saxon foe.' 

" For many a year wrought the wizard here, 

In Cheviot's bosom IcW; 
Till the spell was complete, and in July's 
heat 

Appear'd December's snow, 
But Cessford' s Haibert never came 

The wondrous cause to know. 

" For years before in Bowden aisle 

The warrior's bones had lain. 
And after short while, by female guile, 

Sir Michael Scott was slain. 

" But me and my brethren in this cell 

His mighty charms retam, — 
And he that can quell the powerful spell 

Shall o'er broad Scotland reign.'' 

He led him through an iron door 

And up a winding stan-. 
And in wild amaze did the wanderer gaze 

On the sight which opened there. 

Through the gloomy night flashed ruddv 
light,— 

A thousand torches glow ; 
The cave rose high, like the vaulted sky. 

O'er stalls in double row. 

In every stall of that endless hall 
Stood a steed in barbing bright , 

At the foot of each steed, all arm'd .save the 
head, 
Was stretch'd a stalwart km'ght. 






^E^ 



460 



SCOTTS POETICAL WORKS. 



In each mail'd hand was a naked brand ; 

As they lay on the black bull's hide, 
Each visage stern did upwards turn, 

With eyeballs fixed and wide. 

A launcegay strong, full twelve ells long. 

By every warrior hung ; 
At each pommel there, tor battle yare, 

A Jed wood axe was slung. 

The casque hung near each cavalier ; 

The plumes waved mournfully 
At every tread which the wanderer made 

Through the hall of gramarye. 

The ruddy beam of the torches' gleam 

That glared the warrior on, 
Reflected light from armor bright. 

In noontide splendor shone. 

And onward seen in lustre sheen, 

Still lengthening on the sight. 
Through the boundless hall stood steeds 
in stall, 

And by each lay a sable knight. 

Still as the dead lay each horseman dread, 
And moved nor limb nor tongue; 

Each steed stood stiff as an earthfast cliff, 
Nor hoof nor bridle rung. 

No sounds through all thi spacious hall 

The deadly still divide. 
Save where echoes aloof from the vaulted 
roof 

To the wanderer's step replied. 

At length before his wondering eyes, 

On an iron column borne. 
Of antique shape, and giant size, 

Appear'd a sword and horn. 

" Now choose thee here," quoth his leader, 

" Thy venturous fortune try ; 
Thy woe and weal, thy boot and bale. 

In yon brand and bugle lie."' 

To the fatal brand he mounted his hand, 
But his soul did quiver and quail : 

The life-blood did start to his shuddering 
heart, 
And left him wan and pale. 

The brand he forsook, and the horn he took 

To 'say a gentle sound ; 
But so wild a blast from the bugle brast. 

That the Cheviot rock'd around. 

From Forth to Tees, from seas to seas, 

The awful bugle rung ; 
On Carlisle wall, and Berwick withal, 

To arms the warders sprung. 



With clank and clang the cavern rang, 
The steeds did stamp and neigh ; 

And loud was the yell as each warrior fell 
Sterte up with whoop and cry. 

" Woe, woe," they cried, " thou caitiff 
coward. 

That ever thou wert born ! 
Why drew ye not the knightly sword 

Before ye blew the horn ! ' ' 

The morning on the mountain shone, 

And on the bloody ground, 
Hurl'd from the cave with shiver'd bone. 

The mangled wretch was found. 

And still beneath the cavern dread, 

Among the glidders gray. 
And shapeless stone with lichens spread, 

Marks where the wanderer lay. 



CHEVIOT. 

1799. 

■Slf ^ ^ "51^ -I" 

Go sit old Cheviot's crest below, 
And pensive mark the lingering snow 

In all his scaurs abide. 
And slow dissolving from the hill 
In many a sightless, soundless rill. 

Feed sparkling Bowmont's tide. 

Fair shines the stream by bank and lea 
As vrimpling to the eastern sea 

She seeks Till's sullen bed, 
Indenting deep the fatal plain, 
Where Scotland's noblest, brave in vain, 

Around their monarch bled. 

And westward hills on hills you see. 
Even as old Ocean's mightiest sea 

Heaves high her waves ot foam. 
Dark and snow-ridged from Custfield 

wold 
To the proud foot of Cheviot roll'd. 

Earth's mountain billows come. 



THE REIVER'S WEDDING. 

1S02. 
WILL ye bear a myrthful bourd ? 

Or will ye hear of courtesie? 
Or will ye hear how a gallant lord 

Was wedded to a gay ladye .'' 




'W 




FRAGMENTS. 



461 



"Ca' out the kye," quo' the village herd, 

As he stood on the knovve, 
"Ca' this ane's nine and that ana's ten, 

And bauld Lord William's cow." — 

" Ah ! by my sooth," quoth William then, 

" And stands it that way now, 
When knave and churl have nine and ten. 

That the lord has but his cow ? 

" I swear by the light of the Michaelmas 
moon. 

And the might of Mary high, 
And by the edge of my braidsword brown. 

They shall soon say Harden's kye.'' 

He took a bugle frae his side. 

With names carv'd o'er and o'er — 

Full many a chief of meikle pride 
Tha border bugle bore — 

He blew a note baith sharp and hie, 
Till rock and water rang around — 

Threescore of moss-troopers and three 
Have mounted at that bugle sound. 

The Michaelmas moon had enter'd then. 

And ere she wan the full, 
Ye might see by her light in Harden Glen 

A bow o' kye and a bassen'd bull. 

And loud and loud in Harden tower 

The quaigh gaed round wi' meikle glee ; 

For the English beef was brought in bower 
And the English ale flow'd merrilie. 

And mony a guest from Teviotside 
And Yarrow's Braes was there ; 

Was never a lord in Scotland wide 
That made more dainty fare. 

They ate, they laugh'd, they sang and 
quaff'd. 

Till naught on board was seen, 
When knight and squire were boune to dine, 

But a spur of silver sh^en. 

Lord William has ta'en his berry brown 
steed — 

A sore shent man was he ; 
" Wait ye, my guests, a little speed — 

Weel feasted ye shall be." 

He rode him down by Falsehope burn, 

His cousin dear to see, 
With him to take a riding turn — 

Wat draw-the-sword was he. 

And when he came to Falsehope glen 
Beneath the trysting-tree. 



On the smooth green was carved plain, 
" To Lochwood bound are we." 

'■ O, if they be gane to dark Lochwood 

To drive the Warden's gear. 
Betwixt our names, I ween, there's feud ; 

I'll go and have my share: 

'• For little reck I for Johnstone's feud. 

The Warden though he be." 
So Lord William is away to dark Loch- 
wood, 

With riders barely three. 

The Warden's daughters in Lochwood state 

Were all botii fair and gay. 
All save the Lady Margaret, 

And she was wan and wae. 

The sister, Jean, had a full fair skin, 
And Grace was bauld and braw ; 

But the leal-fast heart her breast within. 
It weel was worth them a'. 

Her father's pranked her sisters twa 

With meikle joy and pride ; 
But Margaret niaum seek Dundrennan's 
wa' — 

She ne'er can be a bride. 

On spear and casque by gallants gent 

Her sisters' scarfs were borne, 
But never a tilt or tournament 

Were Margaret's colors worn. 

Her sisters rode to Thirlstane bower. 

But she was left at hame 
To waiider round the gloomy tower. 

And sigh young Harden's name. 

" Of all the knights, the knight most fair. 

From Yarrow to the Tyne," 
Soft sigh'd the maid, "is Harden's heir, 

But ne'er can he be mine ; 

" Of all the maids, the foulest maid 

From Teviot to the Dee, 
Ah ! " sighing sad, that lady s?id, 

'• Can ne'er young Harden's be." 

She looked up the briery glen, 

And up the mossy brae. 
And she saw a score of her father's men 

Yclad in the Johnstone gray. 

O fast and fast they downwards sped 

The moss and briers among, 
And in the midst the troopers led 
, A shackled kniijht alonsj. 




'¥ 





DRAMATIC PIECES 



HALIDON HILL; 

A DRAMATIC SKETCH FROM SCOTTISH HISTORY 



The subject is to be found in Scottish history ; but not to overload so slight a publication with 
antiquarian research, or quotations from obscure chronicles, it may be sufficient to refer the 
reader to Pinkerton's History of Scotland, vol. i. p. 72. 

The Regent of the sketch is a character purely imaginary. The tradition of the Swinton 
family, which still survives in a lineal descent, and to which the author has the honor to be 
related, avers, that the Swinton who fell at Homildon had slain Gordon's father ; which seems 
sufficient ground for adopting that circumstance into the following dramatic sketch, though it is 
rendered improbable by other authorities. 

If any reader will take the trouble of looking at Froissart, Fordun, or other historians of the 
period, he will find that the character of the Lord of Swinton, for strength, courage, and con- 
duct, is by no means exaggerated. 

Abbotsford, 1S22. W. S. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

SCOTTISH. 

The Regent of Scotland. 

Gordon, ] 

Swinton, j 

Lennox, 

Sutherland, 

Ross, 

Maxwell, 

iOHNSTON, 
.indesay. 



! Scottish chiefs and 
\ Nobles. 



J 



Adam De Vipont, a Knight Templar. 

The Prior of Maison-Dieu. 

Reynald, S2uiiiton's Squi7-e. 

Hob Hattely, a Border Moss-Trooper. 

Heralds. 

ENGLISH. 

King Edward III. 

Chandos; I English a,td Norman 

Percy, J ^ ^^^^^^_ 

Ribaumont, ) 
The Abbot of Walthamstow. 



ACT I.— Scene I. 
The northern side of the eminence of Hali- 
dcm. The back Scene represents the 
summit of the ascent, occupied by the 
Rear-gnard of the Scottish army. Bodies 
of armed Men appear as advancing 
from different points, to joiti the main 
Body. 
Enter De Vipont and the Prior OF 

Maison-Dieu. 
ViP. No farther. Father — here I need no 
guidance — 
<462) 



I have already brought your peaceful step 
Too near the verge of battle. 

Pri. Fain would I see you join some 

Baron's banner, 
Before I say farewell. The honor'd 

sword 
That fought so well in Syria, should not 

wave 
Amid the ignoble crowd. 

ViP. Each spot is noble in a pitched 

field. 
So that a man has room to fight and fall 

on't. 









J 


i 1 '" L ' ? ] 1 1 Y- 




/ \ 1 


c- 


E ^^ 








HALinOAT HILL. 463 






But I shall find out inends. 'Tis scarce 


Few hairs are silver'd underneath the 




twelve years 


helmet ; 






Since 1 left Scotland for the wars of Pa- 


'Tis cowls like mine which hide them. J [^ 




t 


lestine, 


'Mongst the laity, 






And then the flower of all the Scottish 


War's the rash reaper, who thrusts in his 






nobles 


sickle 






Were known to me ; and I, in my degree, 


Before the grain is white. In threescore 






Not all unknown to them. 


years 






Pri. Alas ! there have been changes since 


And ten, whicii I have seen, I have oub- 






that time ! 


lived 






The Royal Bruce, with Randolph, Dou- 


Well-nigh two generations of our nobles. 






glas, Grahame, 


The race which holds yon summit is the 






Then shook in field the banners which now 


third. 






moulder 


Vip. Thou mayst outlive them also. 






Over their graves i' the chancel. 


Pri. Heaven forfend ! 






Vix. And thence comes it, 


My prayer shall be, that Heaven will 






That while I look'd on many a well-known 


close my eyes, 






crest 


Before they look upon the wrath to come. 






And blazon'd shield, as hitherward we 


Vip. Retire, retire, good Father ! — 






came. 


Pray for Scotland — 






The faces of the barons who display'd 


Thmk not on me. Here comes an ancient 






them 


friend, 






Were all unknown to me. Brave youths 


Brother in arms, with whom to-day I'll 






they seem'd ; 


join me. 






Yet, surely, fitter to adorn the tilt-yard, 


Back to your choir, assemble all your 






Than to be leaders of a war. Their fol- 


brotherhood. 






lowers, 


And weary Heaven with prayers for 






Young like themselves, seem like them- 


victory. 






selves unpracticed — 


Pri. Heaven's blessing rest with thee, 






Look at their battle-rank. 


Champion of Heaven, and of thy suffering 






Pri. I cannot gaze on't with undazzled 


country ! 






eye. 


\Exit Prior. Vipont draws a 






So thick the rays dart back from shield and 


little aside and lets down the 






helmet, 


bearer of his helinet. 






And sword and battle-axe, and spear and 








pennon. 
Sure 'tis a gallant show ! The Bruce him- 


Enter SwiNTON, followed by Reynald 






and others, to whom he speaks as he 






self 


enters. 






Hath often conquer'd at the head of 


Swi. Halt here, and plant my pennon, 






fewer 


till the Regent 






And worse appointed followers. 


Assign our band its station in the host. 






ViP. Ay, but 'twas Bruce that led them. 


Rey. That must be by the Standard. 






Reverend Father, 


We have had 






'Tis not the falchion's weight decides a 


That right since good Saint David's reign 






combat ; 


at least. 






It is the strong and skilful hand that wields 


Fain would I see the Marcher would dis- 






it. 


pute it. 






Ill fate, that we should lack the noble 


Swi. Peace, Reynald ! Where the 






King, 


general plants the soldier. 






And all his champions now ! Time call'd 


There is his place ot honor, and there only 






them not, 


His valor can win worship. Thou'rt of 






1 For when I parted hence for Palestine, 


those 




4 


1 /» The brows of most were free from grizzl'd 


Who would h.ave war's deep art bear the ts r 






hair. 


wild semblance 






Pri. Too true, alas ! But well you know, 


Ot some disorder'd hunting, where, pell 






in Scotland 


1 mell, 




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A 


64 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 






!)ach trusting to the swiftness of his horse, 


That Swinton's bugle-horn can call to 




Gallants press on to see the quarry fall. 


battle, 






Yon steel-clad Southrons, Reynald, are no 


However loud it rings. There's not a boy 






^ ^ deer; 


Left in my halls, whose arm has strength 


* 




And England's Edward is no stag at bay. 


enough 






ViP. {advancing). There needed not, to 


To bear a sword — there's not a man be- 






blazon forth the Swinton, 


hind. 






His ancient burgonet, the sable Boar 


However old, who moves without a staff. 






Chain'd to the gnarl'd oak,— nor his proud 


Striplings and graybeards, every one is 






step. 


here. 






Nor giant stature, nor the pondrous mace, 


And here all should be— Scotland needs 






Which only he, of Scotland's realm, can 


them all, 






wield ; 


And more and better men, were each a 






His discipline and wisdom mark the leader, 


Hercules, 






As doth his frame the champion. Hail, 


And yonder handful centupled. 






brave Swinton ! 


ViP. A thousand followers — such, with 






Swi. Brave Templar, thanks ! Such your 


friends and kinsmen, 






cross'd shoulder speaks you ; 


Allies and vassals, thou wert wont to lead — 






But the closed visor, which conceals your 


A thousand followers shrunk to sixty 






features, 


lances 






Forbids more knowledge. Umfraville, per- 


In twelve years' space? — And thy brave 






haps — 


sons, Sir Alan? 






ViP. {unclosing his helmet). No ; one 


Alas ! I fear to ask. 






less worthy of our sacred Order. 


Swi. All slain, De Vipont. In my empty 






Yet, unless Syrian suns have scorch'd my 


home 






features 


A puny babe lisps to a widow'd mother. 






Swart as my sable visor, Alan Swinton 


" Where is my grandsire ? wherefore do you 






Will welcome Symon Vipont. 


weep ? ■' 






Swi. {embracing him). As the blithe 


But for that prattler, Lyulph's house is 






reaper 


heirless, 






Welcomes a practiced mate, when the ripe 


I'm an old oak, from which the foresters 






harvest 


Have hew'd four goodly boughs, and left 






Lies deep before him, and the sun is 


beside me 






high ! 


Only a sapling which the fawn may crush 






Thou'lt follow yon old pennon, wilt thou 


As he springs over it. 






not? 


ViP. All slain? — alas! 






'Tis tatter'd since thou saw'st it, and the 


Swi. Ay, all, De Vipont. And their at- 






Boar-heads 


tributes, 






Look as if brought from off some Christ- 


John with the Long Spear — Archibald 






mas board. 


with the Axe — 






Where knives had notch'd them deeply. 


Richard the Ready — and my youngest dar- 






ViP. Have with them, ne ertheless. The 


ling) 






Stuart's Chequer, 


My Fair-hair'd William — do but now sur- 






The bloody Heart of Douglas, Ross's 


vive 






Lymphads, 


In measures which the gray-hair'd minstrels 






Sutherland's Wild-cats, nor the royal 


sing 






Lion, 


When they make maidens weep. 






Rampant in golden tressure, wins me from 


ViP. These wars with England they have 






them. 


rooted out 






We'll back the Boar-heads bravely. I see 


The flowers of Christendom. Knights, who 






round them 


might win 






A chosen band of lances — some well-known 


The sepulchre of Christ from the rude - 




• 


r, to me. 


heathen, w 


^ 




Where's the main body of thy followers? 


Fall in unholy warfare! 






Swi. Symon de Vipont, thou dost see 


Swi. Unholy warfare? ay, well hast thou 






them all 


named it ; 








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HALIDON HILL. ' 4^5 


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But not with England — would her ciothvard 


Vip. You, with some threescore lances — 






shafts 


and the Gordon 






J l« Hadboredtlieir cuirasses ! Their lives had 


Leading a thousand followers. J L 






been. 


Swi. You rate him far too low. Since 






Lost like their graudsire's, in the bold 


you sought Palestine, 






defence 


He hath had grants of baronies and lord- 






Of their dear country — but in private feud 


ships 






With the proud Gordon, fell my Long- 


In the far-distant North. A thousand 






spear'd John, 


horse 






lie with the Axe, and he men call'd the 


His southern friends and vassals always 






Ready, . 


number'd. 






Ay, and my Fair-hair'd Will — the Gordon's 


Add Badenoch kerne, and horse from Dey 






wrath 


and Spey, 






Devour'd my gallant issue. 


He'll count a thousand more. — And now. 






ViP. Since thou dost weep, their death is 


De Vipont, 






unavenged ? 


If the Boar-heads seem in your eyes less 






Swi. Templar, what think's thou me? 


worthy 






See yonder rock, 


For lack of followers — seek yonder stand- 






From which the fountain gushes — is it less 


ard — 






Compact of adamant, though waters flow 


The bounding Stag, with a brave host 






from it ? 


around it : 






Firm hearts have moister eyes. — They are 


There the young Gordon makes his earliest 






avenged ; 


f^eld, 






1 wept not till they were — till the proud 


And pants to win his spurs. His father's 






Gordon 


friend, 






Had with his life blood dyed my father's 


As well as -mine, thou wert — go, join his 






sword, 


pennon, 






In guerdon that he thinn'd my father's 


And grace him with thy presence. 






lineage, 


Vip. When you were friends, I was the 






And then I wept my sons ; and, as the 


friend of both. 






Gordon 


And now I can be enemy to neither ; 






Lay at my feet, there was a tear for him. 


But my poor person, though but slight the 






Which mingled with the rest. We had been 


aid. 






friends. 


Joins on this field the banner of the two 






Had shared the banquet and the chase to- 


Which hath the smallest following. 






gether, 


Swi. Spoke like the generous Knight. 






Fought side by side, — and our first cause of 


who gave up all. 






strife, 


Leading and lordship, in a heathen land 






Woe to the pride of both, was but a light 


To fight, a Christian soldier ! Yet, in 






one! 


earnest, 






ViP. You are at feud, then, with the 


I pray, De Vipont, you would join the 






mighty Gordon .' 


Gordon 






Swi. At deadly feud. Here in this Bor- 


In this high battle. 'Tis a noble youth, — 






derland, 


So fame doth vouch him, — amorous, quick. 






Where the sire's quarrels descend upon the 


and valiant ; 






son. 


Takes knighthood, too, this day, and well 






As due a part of his inheritance. 


may use 






As the strong castle and the ancient blazon, 


His spurs too rashly in the wish to win 






Where private Vengeance holds the scales 


them. 






of justice, [lously 


k friend like thee beside him in the fight. 






Weighing each drop of blood as scrupu- 


Were worth a hundred spears, to rein his 






t As Jews or Lombards balance silver pence, 


valor . 
.4nd temper it with prudence : — "tis the aged «* P 




c 


f* Not m this land, "twixt Sol way and Saint 






Abb-s, 


eagle 






Rages a bitterer feud than mine and theirs, 


Teaches his brood to gaze upon the sun, 






The Swinton and the Gordon. 


With eye undazzled. 




t 








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466 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



ViP. Alas ! brave Swinton ! Would'st 

thou train the hunter 
That soon must bring thee to the bay? 

Your custom, 
Your most unchristian, savage, fiend-like 

custom. 
Binds Gordon to avenge his father's death. 
Swi. Why, be it so ! 1 look for nothing 

else ; 
My part was acted when I slew his father. 
Avenging my four sons — Young Gordon's 

sword. 
If it should find my heart, can ne'er inflict 

there 
I A pang so poignant as his father's did. 
But I would perish by a noble hand. 
And such will his be if he bear him nobly. 
Nobly and wisely on this field of Halidon. 

Enter a Pursuivant. 

Pur. Sir Knights, to council! — 'tis the 

Regent's order. 
That knights and men of leading meet 

him instantly 
Before the royai standard. Edward's army 
Is seen from the hill summit. 

Swi. Say to the Regent, we obey his 

orders. [Exit Pursuivant. 

[To Reynald.] Hold thou my casque, 

and furl my pennon up 
Close to the staff. I will not show my 

crest. 
Nor standard, till the common foe shall 

challenge them. 
I'll wake no civil strife, nor tempt the Gor- 
don 
With aught that's like defiance. 

ViP. Will he not know your features? 
Swi. He never saw me. In the distant 

North, 
Against his will, 'tis said, his friends de- 

tain'd him 
During his nurture — caring not, belike. 
To trust a pledge so precious near the 

Boar-tusks. 
It was a natural but needless caution ; 
I wage no war with children, for I think 
Too deeply on mine own. 

Vip. I have thought on it, and will see 

the Gordon 
As we go hence to council. I do bear 
A cross, which binds me to be Christian 

priest 
As well as Christian champion. God may 

grant 



That I, at once his father's friend and 

yours. 
May make some peace betwixt you. 

Swi. When that your priestly zeal and 
knightly valour 
Shall force the grave to render up the dead. 
[Exeitnt severally. 

Scene II. 

The summit of Halidon Hill, before the 
Rtgenfs tent. The Royal Standard of 
Scotland is seeti in the background, with 
the Pennons and Banners of the prin- 
cipal Nobles around it. 

Council of Scottish Nobles and Chiefs. 
Sutherland, Ross, Lennox, Max- 
well, and other nobles of the highest 
rank, are close to the Regent's person, 
and in the act of keen debate. Vipont 
■with Gordon and others remain 
grouped at some distance on the right 
hand of the Stage. On the left, stand- 
ing also apart, is Swinton, alone and 
bare-headed. ' The Nobles are dressed in 
Highland or Lo2iland habits, as histori- 
cal costume requires. Trumpets, Her- 
alds, &'c., are in attendaftce. 

Len. Nay, Lordings, put no shame upon 
my counsels. 

I did but say, if we retired a little. 

We should have fairer field and better van- 
tage. 

I've seen King Robert — ay, the Bruce him- 
self— 

Retreat six leagues in length, and think no 
shame on"t. 
Reg. Ay, but King Edward sent a 
haughty message. 

Defying us to battle on this field, 

This very hill of Halidon ; if we leave it 

Unfought withal, it squares not with our 
honor. 
Swi. {apa}-t). A perilous honor that 
allows the enemy, 

And such an enemy as this same Edward, 

To choose our field of battle ! He knows 
how 

To make our Scottish pride betray its 
master 

Into the pitfall. 

[During this speech the debate among 

the Nobles is continued !\ 

SuTH. (aloud). We will not back one 
furlong — not one yard. 

No, nor one incli ; where'er we find the foe, 




A 



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<■ . ^ ' . . ' ' ~> 


] 








HALIDON HILL. 46J 






Or where the foe finds us, there will we 


And arrows soon will whistle — the worst 




light him. 


sound 






[j Retreat will dull the spirit of our followers, 


That waits on English war. — You must 




*" 


\ Who now stand prompt for battle. 


determine. 






Ross. My Lords, metliinks great Mor- 


Reg. We are determined. We will 






archat * has doubts, 


spare proud Edward 






That, if his Northern clans once turn the 


Half of the ground that parts us. — On- 






seam 


ward, Lords ; 






Of their check 'd hose behind, it will be 


Saint Andrew strike for Scotland ! We 






hard 


will lead 






To halt and rally them. 


The middle ward ourselves, the Royal 






SuTH. Say'st thou, MacDonnell ? — .\dd 


Standard 






another falsehood, 


Display'd beside us ; and beneath its 






And name when Morarchat was coward 


shadow 






or traitor? 


Shall the young gallants, whom we knight 






Thine island race, as chronicles can tell, 


this day. 






Were oft affianced to the Southron cause ; 


Fight for their golden spurs. — LennoXj 






Loving the weight and temper of their 


thou'rt wise, 






gold. 


And wilt obey command — lead thou the 






More than the weight and temper of their 


rear. 






steel. 


Len. The rear? — why I the rear? The 






Reg. Peace, my lords, ho. 


van were fitter 






Ross. (throwing down his glove!) 


For him who fought abreast with Robert 






MacDonnell will not peace! Tiiere lies 


Bruce. 






my pledge, 


Swi. {apart.) Discretion hath forsaken 






Proud Morarchat, to witness thee a liar. 


Lennox too ! 






Max. Brouglit I all Nithsdale from the 


The wisdom he was forty years in gathering 






Western Border ; 


Has left him in an instant. 'Tis contagious 






Left I my towers exposed to foraying 


Even to witness frenzy. 






England, 


SuTH. The Regent hath determined 






And thieving Annandale, to see such mis- 


well. The rear 






rule t 


Suits him the best who counsell'd our re- 






John. Who speaks of Annandale ? 


treat. 






Dare Maxwell slander 


Len. Proud Northern Thane, the van 






The gentle House of Lochwood ?t 


were soon the rear. 






Reg. Peace, Lordings, once again. We 


Were thy disordered followers planted 






represent 


there. 






The Majesty of Scotland — in our presence 


SuTH. Then, for that very word I make 






Brawling is treason. 


a vow, 






SuTH. Were it in presence of the King 


By my broad Earldom, and my father's 






himself, 


soul, 






What should prevent my saying 


That, if I have not leading of the van. 






Enter Lindesay. 


I will not fight to-day ! 

Ross. Morarchat ! thou the leading of 






Lin. You must determine quickly 


the van ! 






Scarce a mile 


Not whilst MacDonnell lives. 






Parts our vanguard from Edward's. On 

the plain 
Bright gleams ot armor flash through 

clouds of dust. 
Like stars through frost-mist — steeds 


Swi. {apart.) Nay, then a stone would 

speak. 
\Addrcsses the REGENT.] May't please 

your Grace, 
And you, great Lords, to hear an old 

man's counsel. 
That hath seen fights enow. These open n 






^ ? 


neigh, and weapons clash — 


•» 


* Morarchate in the ancient Gaelic desiena- 




lion o£ the Earls of Sutherland. 


bickerings 






t Lochwood Castle was the ancient seat of 


Dishearten all our host. It that your 






the Johnstones, Lords of Annandale. 


Grace 




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468 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 






With these great Earls anr". Lords must 


-Sir Knight, I pray you, of your gentle 




needs debate, 


courtesy, 1 






J is Let thft closed tent conceal your disagree- 


To tell your honor'd name. I am ashamed, J [ 






ment ; 


Being unknown in arms, to say that mine 






Else 'twill be said, ill fares it with the 


Is Adam Gordon. 






flock, 


Swinton {shou<s emotion, bid instaiitly 






If shepherds wrangle when the wolf is 


subdues tt\. It is a name that soundeth 






nigh. 


in my ear 






Reg. The old Knight counsels well. 


Like to a deatli-knell — av, and like the 






Let every Lord 


call 






Or Chief, who leads five hundred men or 


Of tlie shrill trumpet to the mortal lists ; 






more, 


Yet, 'tis a name which ne'er hath been dis- 






Follow to council — others are excluded — 


honor'd, 






We'll have no vulgar censurers of our 


And never will, I trust — most surely never 






conduct — [Looking at Swinton. 


By such a youth aa thou. 






Young Gordon, your high rank and 


Gor. There's a mysterious courtesy in 






numerous following 


this, 






Give you a seat with us, though yet un- 


And yet it yields no answer to my question. 






knighted. 


I trust you hold the Gordon not unworthy 






Gordon. I pray you, pardon me. My 


To know the name he asks ? 






youth's unfit 


Swi. Worthy of all that openness and 






To sit in council, when that Knight's gray 


honor 






hairs 


May show to friend or foe — but, for my 






And wisdom wait without. 


name. 






Reg. Do as you will ; we deign not bid 


Vipont will show it you ; and, if it sounds 






you twice. 


Harsh in your ear, remember that it knells 






{The Regent, Ross, Suther- 
land, Lennox, Maxwell, (S^r. 


there 

But at your own request. This day, at 
least. 

Though seldom wont to keep it in conceal- 
ment. 






e7iier the Tent. The rest remain 
grouped about the Stage. 






GoR. {observing Swi.) That helmetless 


As there's no cause I should, yo2i had not 






old Knight, his giant stature, 


heard it. 






His awful accents of rebuke and wisdom. 


Gor. This strange 






Have caught my fancv strangely. He doth 


ViP. The mystery is needful. Follow 






seem 


me. [ They retire behijid the side scene. 






Like to some vision'd form which I have 


Swi. {looking after them). 'Tis a brave 






dream'd of, 


youth. How blush'd his noble cheek. 






But never saw with waking eyes till now. 


While youthful modesty, and the embarrass- 






I will accost him. 


ment 






ViP. Pray you, do not so ; 


Of curiosity, combined with wonder. 






Anon I'll give you reason why you should 


And half suspicion of some slight intended, 






not. 


All mingled in the flush: but soon 'twill 






There's other work in hand 


deepen 






Gor. I will but ask his name. There's 


Into revenge's glow. How slow is 






in his presence 


Vipont ! — 






Something that works upon me like a spell, 


I wait the issue, as I've seen spectators 






Or like the feeling made my childish ear 


Suspend the motion even of the eyelids, 






Dote upon tales of superstitious dread, 


When the slow gunner, with his lighted 






Attracting while they chill'd my heart with 


match, 






fear. 


Approach'd the charged cannon, in tlie act 






Now, born the Gordon, I do feel right well 


To waken its dread slumbers. — Now 'tis 




«■ 


P I'm bound to fear nought earthly — and I fear 


out ; .-| » 






nought. 


He draws his sword, and rushes towards 






I'll know who this man is 


me, 






\ Accosts Swinton. 


Who will not seek nor shun him. 




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FTALIDON HILL, 



469 



Enter Gordon, ^vithheld by Vipont. 

ViP. Hold, for the sake of Heaven ! O, 

for the sake 
Of your dear country, hold ! — Has Swinton 

slain your fatlier, 
And must you, therefore, be yourself a par- 
ricide, 
And stand recorded as the selfish traitor, 
Who in her hour of need, his country's 

cause 
Deserts, that he may wreak a private 

wrong ? 
Look to yon banner — that is Scotland's 

standard ; 
Look to the Regent- he is Scotland's 

general ; 
Look to the English — they are Scotland's 

foemen ! 
Bethink thee, then, thou art a son of Scot- 
land, 
And think on nought beside. 

GoR. He hath come here to brave me ! — 

Off! unhand me! — 
Thou canst not be my father's ancient 

friend, 
That stand'st 'twixt me and him wlio slew 

my father. 
ViP. You know not Swinton. Scarce 

one passing thought 
Of his high mind was with you ; now, his 

soul 
Is fix'd on this day's battle. You might 

slay him 
At unawares, before he saw your blade 

drawn, — 
Stand still, and watch him close. 

Enter Maxwell /ro;« the tent. 

Swi. How go our councils, Maxwell, may 

I ask? 
Max. As wild, as if the very wind and 
sea 
With every breeze and every billow battled 
For their precedence. 

Swi. Most sure they are possess'd ! 
Some evil spirit, 
To mock their valor, robs them of discre- 
tion. 
Fie, iie upon 't '. — O, that Dunfermline's 

tomb 
Could render up The Bruce ! that Spain's 
red shore 



Or that fierce Randolph, with his voice of 

terror. 
Were here, to awe these brawlers to submis- 
sion ! 
ViP. to GoR. Thou hast perused him at 

more leisure now. 
GoR. I see the giant form which all men 

speak of, 
The stately port — but not the sullon eye, 
Not the bloodthirsty look, that should 

belong 
To him that made me oiphan. I shall 

need 
To name my father twice ere I can strike 
At such gray hairs, and face of such coin-- 

mand ; 
Yet my hand clenches on my falchion hilt, 
In token he shall die. 

ViP. Need 1 again remind you, that the 

place 
Permits not private quarrel ? 

GoR. I'm calm. I will not seek — nay, I 

will shun it — 
And yet methinks that such debate's the 

fashion. 
You've heard how taunts, reproaches, and 

the lie, 
The lie itself, have flown from mouth to 

mouth ; 
As if a band of peasants were disputing 
About a foot-ball match, rather than 

Chiefs 
Were ordering a battle. I am young, 
And lack experience; tell me, brave De 

Vipont, 
Is such the fashion of your wars in Pales- 
tine ? 
ViP. Such it at times hath been; and 

then the Cross 
Hath sunk before the Crescent. Heaven's 

cause 
Won us not victory where wisdom was 

not. — 
Behold yon English host come slowly 

on, 
With equal front, rank marshall'd upon 

rank, 
As if one spirit ruled one moving body; 
The leaders, in their places, each prepared 
To charge, support, and rally, as the for- 
tune 
Of changeful battle needs ; then look on 

ours, 
Broken, disjointed, as the tumbling surges 



Could give us back the good Lord James of Which the winds wake at random.' Look on 
Douglas 1 both. 





SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



dis- 



too 



And dread the issue; yet there might be 

succor. 
GoR. We're fearfully o'ermatch'd in dt- 

cipline; 
So even my inexperienced eye can judge. 
What succor save in Heaven ? 

ViP. Heaven acts by human means. The 

artist's slcill 
Supplies in war, as in mechanic crafts, 
Deficiency of tools. Tliere's courage, wis- 
dom, 
And skill enough, live in one leader here, 
As, flung into the balance, might avail 
To counterpoise the odds 'twixt that ruled 

host 
And our wild multitude. — I must not name 

him. 
GoR. I guess, but dare not ask. — What 

band is yonder, 
Arranged as closely as the English 

cipline 
Hath marsh.ill'd their best files ? 

ViP. Know'st thou not the pennon? 
One day, perhaps, thou'lt see it all 

closely ; — 
It is Sir Alan Swinton's. 

GoR. These, then, are his, — the relics of 

his power ; 
Yet worth an host of ordinary men. — 
And I must slay my country's sagest 

leader. 
And crush by numbers tiiat determined 

handful. 
When most my country needs their practised 

aid, 
Or men will say, " There goes degenerate 

Gordon ; 
His father's blood is on the Swinton's 

sword. 
And his is in his scabbard ! " \_Muses. 

ViP. {apart). High blood and mettle, 

mix'cl with early wisdom, 
Sparkle in this brave youth. If he survive 
This evil-omen'd day, I pawn my word, 
That, in the ruin which I now forebode, 
Scotland has treasure left. — How close he 

eyes 
Each look and step of Swinton ! Is it 

hate, 
Or is it admiration, or are both 
Commingled strangely in that steady gaze ? 
[Swinton and Maxwell reticrn 
from the bottom of the stage. 
Max. The storm is laid at length amongst 

these counsellors ; 
Src. they come forth. 



Swi. And it is more than time ; 
For I can mark the vanguard archery 
Handling their quivers — bending up theii 
bows. 



Enter the Regent and Scottish Lords . 

Reg. Thus shall it be, then, since we 
may no better, 
And, since no Lord will yield one jot of 

way 
To this high urgency, or give the vanguard 
Up to another's guidance, we will abide 

them 
Even on this bent ; and as our troops are 

rank'd. 
So shall they meet the foe. Chief, nor 

Thane, 
Nor Noble, can complain of the preced- 
ence 
Which chanee has thus assign'd him. 

Swi. (apart). O, sage discipline, 
That leaves to chance the marshalling of a 
battle ! 
GoR. Move him to speech, De Vipont. 
ViP. Move him ! — Move whom ? 
GoR. Even him, whom, but brief space 
since. 
My hand did burn to put to utter silence. 
ViP. I'll move it to him. — Swinton, speak 
to them. 
They lack thy counsel sorely. 

Swi. Had I the thousand spears which 
once I led, 
I had not thus been silent. But men's 

wisdom 
Is rated by their means. From the poor 

leader 
Of sixty lances, who seeks words of weight ? 
GoR. {steps fon.vard). Swinton, there's 
that of wisdom on thy brow, 
And valor in thine eye, and that of peril 
In this most urgent hour, that bids me 

say, — 
Bids me, thy mortal foe, say, — Swinton, 

speak, 
For King and Country's sake. 

Swi. Nay, if that voice commands me, 
speak I will ; 
It sounds as if the dead lays charge on me. 
Reg. {to Lennox, with ■who7n he has 
been consiiltmg). 'Tis better than you 
think. This broad hill-side 
Affords fair compass for our power's dis- 
play. 
Rank above rank rising in seemly tiers ; 





HALIDON HILL. 



471 



So that the rearward stands as fair and 
open — — ■ 
S wi. As e'er stood mark before an English 

archer. 
Reg. Who dares to say so ? — Who is't 
dare impeach 
Our rule of discipline ? 

Swi. A poor Knight of these Marches, 
good my Lord ; 
Alan of Swinton, who hath kept a house 

here, 
He and liis ancestry, since the old days 
Of Malcolm, called the Maiden. 

Reg. You have brought here, even to this 
pitched field, 
In which the Royal Banner is display'd, 
I think some sixty spears, Sir Knight of 

Swinton ; 
Our musters name no more 

Swi. I brought each man 1 had ; and 
Chief, or Earl, 
Thane, Duke, or dignitary, brings no 

more : 
And with them brought I what may here be 

useful — 
An aged eye ; which, what in England, 

Scotland, 
Spain, France, and Flanders, hath seen fifty 

battles. 
And ta'en some judgment of them ; a stark 

hand too, 
Which pla>s ar with a straw with this same 

mace, — 
Which if a young arm here can wield more 

lightly, 
I never more will offer word of counsel.- 
Len. Hear him, my Lord ; it is the noble 
Swinton — 
He hath had high experience. 

Max. He is noted 

The wisest warrior 'twixt the Tweed and 

Solway, — 
I do beseech you, hear him. 

John. Ay, hear the Swinton — hear stout 
old .Sir Alan ; 
Maxwell and Johnstone both agree for 
once. 
Reg. Where's your impatience now. 
Late you were all for battle, would not 

hear 
Ourself pronounce a word — and now you 

gaze 
On yon old warrior, in his antique armor, 
As if he were arisen from the dead. 
To bring us Bruce's counsel for the 
battle. 



Swi. 'Tis a proud word to speak ; but he 

who fought 
Long under Robert Bruce, may something 

guess. 
Without communication with the dead. 
At what he would have counsell'd. — Bruce 

had bidden ye 
Review your battle-order, marshal! 'd 

broadly 
Here on the bare hill-side, and bidden you 

mark 
Yon clouds of Southron archers, bearing 

down 
To the green meadow-lands which stretch 

beneath — 
The Bruce had warn'd you, not a shaft to- 
day 
But shall find mark within a Scottish 

bosom, 
If thus our field be order'd. The callow 

boys. 
Who draw but four-foot bows, shall gall our 

front. 
While on our mainward, and upon the 

rear, 
The cloth-yard shafts shall fall like death's 

own darts. 
And, tiiough blind men discharge them, find 

a mark. 
Thus sliall we die the death of slaughter'd 

deer. 
Which, diiven into the toils, are shot at 

ease 
By boys and women, while they toss aloft 
All idly and in vain their branchy horns. 
As we shall shake our unavailing spears. 
Reg. Tush, tell not me! if their shot fall 

like hail, 
Our men have Milan coats to bear it out. 
Swi. Never did armorer temper steel on 

stithy 
That made sure fence against an English 

arrow ; 
A cobweb gossamer were guard as good 
Against a wasp-sting. 

Reg. Who fears a wasp-sting r 
Swi. I, my Lord, fear none ; 

Yet should a wise man brush the insect off. 
Or he may smart for it. 

Reg. We'll keep the hill ; it is the van- 
tage ground 
When the main battle joins. 

Swi. It ne'er will join, while their light 
archery 
Can foil our spearmen and our barbed 
horse. 



y 



472 



SCOTT'S POETICAL li OKA'S. 



To hope Plantagenet would seek close 

combat 
When he can conquer riskless, is to deem 
Sagacious Edward simpler than a babe 
In battle knowledge. Keep the hill, my 

Lord, 
With the main body, if it is your pleasure ; 
But let a body of your chosen horse 
Make execution on yon waspish aichers. 
I've done such work before, and love it 

well ; 
If 'tis your pleasure to give me the leading, 
The dames of Sherwood, Inglewood, and 

Weardale, 
Shall sit in widowhood and long for 

venison. 
And long in vain. Whoe'er remembers 

Bannockburn, — ■ 
And when shall Scotsman, till the last 

loud trumpet, 
Forget that stirring word ! — knows thai 

great battle 
Even thus was fought and won. 

Len. This is tlie shortest road to bandy 

blows ; 
For when the bills step forth and bows go 

back, 
Then is the moment that our hardy spear- 
men, 
With tlieir strong bodies, and tneir stub- 
born hearts. 
And limbs well knit by mountain exercise. 
At the close tug shall foil the short-breath'd 

SouthEon. 
Swi. I do not say the field will thus be 

won ; 
The English host is numerous, brave, and 

loyal; 
Their Monarch most accomplish'd in war's 

art, 

Skill'd, resolute, and wary 

Reg. And if your scheme secure not 

victory, 
What does it promise us ? 

Swi. This much at least, — 

Darkling we shall not die : the peasant's 

shaft, 
Loosen'd perchance without an aim or 

purpose, 
.Shall not drink up the life-blood we derive 
From those famed ancestors, who made 

their breasts 
This frontier's barrier for a thousand 

years. 
We'll meet these Southron bravely hand to 

hand. 



And eye to eye, and weapon against 

weapon ; 
Each man who falls shall see the foe who 

strikes him. 
While our good blades are faithful to the 

hilts. 
And our good hands to these gooa blades 

are faithful, 
Blow shall meet blow, and nor.e fall un- 
avenged — 
We shall not bleed alone. 

Reg. And this is all 

Your wisdom hath devised? 
Swi. Not all ; for I would pray you, 

noble Lords, 
( If one, among the guilty guiltiest, might,) 
For this one day to charm to ten hours' rest 
The never-dying worm of deadly feud, 
That gnaws our vexed hearts — think no 

one foe 
Save Edward and his host : — days will 

remain, 
Ay, days by far too many will remain, 
To avenge old feuds or struggles for pre- 
cedence ; — 
Let this one day be Scotland's. — For my 

self, 
If there is any here may claim from me 
(As well may chance) a debt of blood and 

hatred, 
My life is his to-morrow unresisting, 
So he to-day will let me do the best 
That my old arm may achieve for the dear 

country 
That's mother to us both. 

[Gordon shows much etnotion 
cha-ing this and the fieceding 
sfccch 0/ S W I N T O N . 
Reg. It is a dream- -a vision! — if one 

troop 
Rush down upon the archers, all will 

follow. 
And order is destroy'd — we'll keep the 

battle-rank 
Our fathers wont to do. No more on't. — 

Ho! 
Where be those youths seek knighthood 

from our sword ? 
Her. Here are the Gordon, Somerville, 

and Hay, 
And Hepburn, with a score of gallant? 

more. 
Reg. Gordon, stand forth. 
GoR. 1 pray your Grace forgive me 

Reg. How ! seek you not for knight- 
hood ? 




HA LI DON HILL. 



473 



GoR. 1 do thirst for't. 

But, pardon me — 'tis from another sword. 
Keg. It is your Sovereign's — seek 

you for a worthier ? 
GoR. Who would drink purely, seeks 

the secret fountain, 
How small soever — not the general stream, 
Though It be deep and wide. My lord, 

l' seek 
The boon of knighthood from the hon- 

our'd weapon 
Of the best knight, and of the sagest 

leader. 
That ever graced a ring of chivalry. 
— Therefore, I beg the boon on bended 

knee. 
Even from Sir Alan Swinton. \Kneels. 

Keg. Degenerate boy ! Abject at once 

and insolent ! — - 
See, Loids, he kneels to him that slew his 

father ! 
GOR {starting up). Shame be on him 

who speaks such shameful word ! 
Shame be on him, whose tongue would 

sow dissension. 
When most the time demands that native 

Scotsmen 
Forget each private wrong ! 

Swi. {interrupting I'lim). Youth, since 

you crave me 
To be your sire in chivalry, I remmd 

you 
War has its duties, Office has its rever- 
ence : 
Who governs in the Sovereign's name is 

Sovereign ; 
Crave the Lord Regent's pardon. 

GoR. You task me justly, and I crave 

his pardon, [Boivs to the Regent. 

His and these noble Lords' ; and pray 

them all 
Bear witness to my words. — Ye noble 

presence, 
Here I remit unto the Knight of Swinton 
All bitter memorv of mv father's slaughter, 
All thoughts of malice, liatred, and re- 
venge ; 
By no base fear or composition moved, 
But bv the thought, that in our country's 

battle 
All hearts should be as one. I do forgive 

him 
As freely as I pray to be forgiven, 
And once more kneel to him to sue for 

knighthood. 
Swi. {affected, and drawing his sword). 



Alas ! brave youth 'tis 1 should kneel ic 

you. [sword 

And, tendering thee the hilt of the fell 
That made thee fatherless, bid thee use 

the point 
After thine own discretion. For thy 

boon — 
Trumpets, be ready — In the Holiest name, 
And in our Lady's and Saint Andrew's 

name, 

\_Tot<c/i!ng /lis shoulder witli his sword. 
I dub thee knight ! — Arise, Sir Adam 

Gordon ! 
Be faithful, brave, and O, be foitunate, 
Should this ill hour permit ! 

I The trumpets sonttd ; the Heralds 
cry " Largesse," and the attend- 
ants shout " A Gordon 1 A Gor- 
don ! " 
Reg. Beggars and flatterers 1 Peace. 

peace, I say ! 
We'll to the Standard ; knights shall there 

be made 
Who will with better reason crave your 

clamor. 
Len. What of Swinton's counsel .' 
Here's Maxwell and myself think it worth 

noting. 
Reg. {with concentrated tndignation). 
Let the best knight, and let the sagest 

leader — 
So Gordon quotes the man who slew his 

father. — 
With his old pedigree and b.eavy mace, 
Essay the adventure if it pleases him. 
With his fair threescore horse. As for 

ourselves. 
We will not peril aught upon themeasme. 
GoR. Lord Regent, you mistake ; fir if 

Sir Alan 
Shall venture such attack, each man who 

calls 
The Gordon Chief, and hopes or tears 

from him 
Or good or evil, follows Swinton's banner 
In this achievement. 

Reg. Why, God ha' mercy ! This is of 

a piece. 
Let young and old e'en follow their own 

counsel. 
Since none will list to mine. 

Ross. The Border cockerel fain would 

be on horseback; 
'Tis safe to be prepared for fight or flight.' 
.And this comes cf it to give Northern lands 
To the false Norman blood 




474 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



GoR. Hearken, proud Chief of Isles ! 
Within my stalls 
I have two hundred horse ; two hundred 

riders 
Mount guard upon my castle, who would 

tread 
Into the dust a thousand of your Red-shanks, 
Nor count it a day's service. 

Swi. Hear I this 

From thee, younc; man, and on the day of 

battle ? 
And to the brave MacDonnell ? 

GoR. 'Twas he that urged me ; but I am 

rebuked. i 

Reg. He crouches like a leash-hounj to 

his master ! * 
Swi. Each hound must do so that would 
head the deer — 
'Tis mongrel curs that snatch at mate or 
master. 
Reg. Too much of this. Sirs, to the 
Royal Standard ! 
I bid you, in the name of good King 

David. 
Sound trumpets — sound for Scotland and 
King David ! 

\Thc Regent a^td the rest x'o off, 
and the Scene closes. Maneiit 
Gordon, Swinton, and Vi- 
PONT, -with Reynald and fol- 
lowers. Lennox foLows the 
Regent ; but returns, and ad- 
dresses Swinton 

Len. O, were my western horsemen but 
come up, 
1 would take part with you ! 

Swi. Better that you remain ; 

They lack discretion ; such gray head as 

yours 
May best supply that want. 
Lennox, mine ancient friend, and honor'd 

lord, 
Farewell, I think, forever! 

Len. Farewell, brave friend ! — and fare- 
well, noble Gordon, 
Whose sun will be eclipsed even as it rises ! — 
The Regent will not aid you. 

Swi. We will so bear us, that as soon the 
bloodhound 
Shall halt, and take no part, what time his 
comrade 



*The laws of chivalry demanded this submis- 
sion to a father m chivalry. 



Is grappling with the deer, as he stand still. 
And see us overmatch'd. 

Len. Alas ! thou dost not know how mean 
his pride is. 
How strong his envy. 

Swi. Then we will die, and leave the 

shame with him. \Exit Lennox. 

ViP. (fo Gordon). What ails thee, 

noble youth ? What means this 

pause ? 

Thou dost not rue thy generosity? 

Gor. I have been hurried on by strong 
impulse, 
Like to a bark that scuds before the storm, 
T'll driven upon some strange and distant 

coast. 
Which never pilot dream'd of. — Have I not 

forgiven .^ 
And am I not still fatherless ? 

Swi. Gordon, no; 

For while we live I am a father to thee. 
Gor. Thou, Swinton ? — no ! — that cannot, 

cannot be. 
Swi. Then change the phrase, and say, 
that while we live, 
Gordon shall be my son. If thou art 

fatherless. 
Am I not childless too ? Bethink thee, 

Gordon, 
Our death-feud was not like the household 

fire, 
Which the poor peasant hides among its 

embers. 
To smoulder on, and wait a time for wak- 
ing. 
Ours was the conflagration of the forest. 
Which, in its fury, spares nor sprout nor 

stem. 
Hoar oak, nor sapling — not to be extm 

guish'd, 
Till Heaven, in mercy, sends down all her 

waters ; 
But, once subdued, its flame is quench'd for- 
ever ; 
And spring shall hide the tract of devasta- 
tion. 
With foliage and with flowers. — Give, me thy 
hand 
Gor. My hand and heart! — And freely 

now ! — to fight ! 
Vip. How will you act? [7'(? Swinton ] 
The Gordon's band and thine 
Are in the rearward left, I think, in 

scorn — 
111 post for them who wish to charge the 
foremost : 






HALIDON HILL. 



475 



Swi. We'll turn the scorn to vantage, and 

descend 
Sidelong the hill — some winding path there 

must be — 
O, for a well-skill'd guide ! 

[Hob Hattely starts ttp frojn a 
thicket. 
Hob. So here he stands. — An ancient 

friend, Sir Alan. 
Hob Hattely, or, if you like it better, 
Hob of the Heron Plume, here stands your 

guide. 
Swi. An ancient friend? — a most noto- 
rious knave, 
Whose throat I've destin'd to the dodder'd 

oak 
Before my castle, these ten months and 

more. 
Was it not you who drove from Simprim- 

mains. 
And Swinton-quarter, sixty head of cattle ? 
Hob. What then, if now I lead your sixty 

lances 
Upon the English flank, where they'll find 

spoil 
Is worth six hundred beeves .? 

Swi. Why, thou canst do it, knave. I 

would not trust thee 
With one poor bullock ; yet would risk my 

life 
And all my followers, on thine honest 

guidance. 
Hob. There is a dingle, and a most dis- 
creet one 
(I've trod each step by star-light), that 

sweeps round 
The rearward of this hill, and opens 

secretly 
Upon the archers' flank. — Will not that 

serve 
Vour present turn, Sir Alan .'' 
Swi. Bravely, bravely ! 

GoR. Mount, sirs, and cry my slogan 
Let all who love the Gordon follow me ! 
Swi. Ay, let all follow — but in silence 

follow , 
Scare not the hare that's couchant on her 

form — 
The cushat from her nest — brush not, if 

possible. 
The dew-drop from the spray — 
Let no one whisper, until I cry, " Havoc I " 
Then shout as loud's ye will. — " On, on,brave 

Hob; 
On, thou false thief, but yet most faithful 

Scotsman! [Exeunt. 



ACT II.— Scene I. 

A rising Ground immediately in front of 
the Position of the English Main Body. 
Percy, Chandos, Ribaumont, and 
other English and Norman Nobles, are 
grouped on the Stage. 

Per. The Scots still keep the hill — the 

sun grows high ; 
Would that the charge would sound. 

Ch.\. Thou scent'st the slaughter, 

Percy. — Who comes here , 

Enter the Abbot of Walthamstow, 

Now, by my life, the holy priest of Wal- 
thamstow, 

Like to a lamb among a herd of wolves ! 

See, he's about to bleat. 

As. The King, methinks, delays the onset 

long 
Cha. Your general, Father, like your rat- 
catcher. 

Pauses to bait his traps, and set his snares. 
Ab. The metaphor is decent. 
Cha. Reverend sir, 

I will uphold it just. Our good King 
Edward 

Will presently come to this battle-field, 

And speak to you of the last tilting match, 

Or of some feat he did a twenty years since ; 

But not a word of the day's work before 
him. 

Even as the artist, sir, whose name offends 
you. 

Sits prosing o'er his can, until the trap fall, 

Announcing that the vermin are secured. 

And then 'tis up, and on them. 

Per. Chandos, you give your tongue too 

bold a license. 
Cha. Percy, I am a necessary evil. 

King Edward would not want me, if he 
could, 

And could not, if he would. I know my 
value. 

My heavy hand excuses my light tongue. 

So men wear weighty swords in their de 
fence. 

Although they may offend the tender shin. 

When the steel-boot is doff'd. 

Ab. My Lord of Chandos, 

This is but idle speech on brink of battle, 

When Christian men should think upon theu 
sins; 

For as the tree falls, so the trunk must lie, 

Be it for good or evil. Lord, bethink thee, 






^ 



tf' 476 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Thou hast witheld from our most reverend 

house 
The tithes of Everinghani and Settleton ; 
Wilt thou make satisfaction to the Church, 
Before her thunders strike thee? I do 

warn thee 
In most paternal sort. 

Cha I thank you, Father, filially, 
Though but a truant son of Holy Church, 
1 would not choose to undergo her censures. 
When Scottish blades are waving at my 

throat. 
I'll make fair composition. 

Ab. No composition ; I'll have all, or 

none. 
Cha. None, then — 'tis soonest spoke, 
I'll take my chance, 
And trust my sinful soul to Heaven's 

mercy. 
Rather than risk my worldly goods with 

thee— 
My hour may not be come. 
Ab. Impious — impenitent — 
Per. Hush !— the King — the King ! 

Enter King Edward, attended by 
Baliol and others. 

King {apart to Cha.) Hark hither, 
Chandos ! — Have the Yorkshire 
archers 
Yet join'd the vanguard ? 
Cha. They are marching thither, 

K. Ed. Bid them make haste, for 
shame — send a quick rider 
The loitering knaves ! were it to steal my 

venison. 
Their steps were light er^pugh. — How now, 

Sir Abbot ? 
Say, is your reverence come to study 

with us 
The princely art of war ? 

Ab I've had a lecture from my Lord of 
Chandos, 
In which he term'd your Grace a rat- 
catcher. 
K. Ed Chandos, how's this ? 
Cha. O, I will prove it, Sir ! — These 
skipping Scots 
Have changed a dozen times 'twixt Bruce 

and Baliol, 
Quitting each House when it began to 

totter ; 
They're fierce and cunning, treacherous, 

too, as rats, 
And we, as such, will smoke them in their 
fastnesses. 



K. Ed. These rats have seen your back, 

my Lord of Chandos, 
And noble Percy's too. 

Per. Ay, but the mass which now lies 

weltering 
On yon hill-side, like a Leviathan 
That's stranded on the shallows, then had 

soul in't, 
Order and discipline, and power of action. 
Now 'tis a heedless corpse, which only 

shows, 
By wild convulsions, that some life re- 
mains in't. 
K. Ed. True, they had once a head ; 

and 'twas a wise, 
Although a rebel head. 

Ab (bowing to the King). Would he 

were here ! we should find one to 

match him. 
K. Ed. There's something in that wish 

which wakes an echo 
Within my bosom. Yet it is as well, 
Or better, that The Bruce is in his grave. 
We have enough of powerful foes on 

earth, — 
No need to summon them from other 

worlds. 
Per. Your Grace ne'er met The Bruce? 
K. Ed. Never himself ; but in my 

earliest field 
I did encounter with his famous captains, 
Douglas and Randolph. Faith I they 

press'd me hard. 
Ab. My Liege, if I might urge you with 

a question, 
Will the Scots fight to-day ? 

K. Ed. (sJiarply). Go look your bre 

viary. 
Cha. [apart). The Abbot has it- 
Edward will not answer 
On that nice point. We must observe his 

humor. — {^Addresses the King] 
Your first campaign, my Liege? — That 

was in Weardale, 
When Douglas gave our camp yon mid. 

night ruffle, 
And turn'd men's beds to biers. 

K, Ed. Ay. by Saint Edward ! — I 

escaped right nearly. 
1 was a soldier then for holidays, 
And slept not in mine armor . my safe rest 
Was startled by the cry of " Douglas ! 

Douglas ! " 
And by my couch, a grisly chamberlain, 
Stood Alan Swinton, with his bloody 

mace. 




\ 



fex 



HAUDON HILL. 



All 



It was a diurchman saved rne — my stout | 

chaplain, 
Heaven quit his spirit ! caught a weapon up, 
And grappled with the giant. — How now, 

Louis ! 

filter an Officer, who whispers the King. 
K. Ed. Say to him, — thus — and thus — 
[ Whispers. 
Ab. That Swinton's dead. A monk of 
ours reported. 
Bound homeward from St. Ninian's pil- 
grimage. 
The Lord of Gordon slew him. 

Per. Father, and if your house stood 
on our borders, 
You might have cause to know that Swin- 

ton lives. 
And is on horseback yet. 

Ch.\. He slew the Gordon, 

That's all the difference — a very trifle. 
Ab. Trifling to those who wage a war 
more noble 
Than with the arm of flesh. 

Cha. {apart). The Abbot's vex'd, I'll 
rub the sore for him. — 
{Aloud.) I have seen priests that used 

that arm of flesh. 
And used it sturdily. — Most reverend 

Father, 
What say you to the chaplain's deed of arms 
In the King's tent at Weardale .^ 

Ab. It was most sinful, being against 
the canon 
Prohibiting all churchmen to bear wea- 
pons ; 
And as he fell in that unseemly guise, 
Perchance his soul may rue it. 

K. Ed. (overhearing the last words). 
Who may rue ? 
And what is to be rued ? 

Cha. (apart). I'll match his Reverence 
for the tithes of Everingham. 
— The .A.bbot says, my Liege, the deed was 

sinful. 
By which your chaplain, wielding secular 

weapons. 
Secured your Grace's life and liberty. 
And that he suffers for 't in purgatory. 
K. Ed. (to the Abbot). Say'st thou my 

chaplain is in purgatory ? 
Ab. It is the canon speaks it, good my 

Liege. 
K. Ed. In purgatory ! thou shalt pray 
him out on't. 
Or I will make thee wish thyself beside him. 



Ab. My Lord, perchance his soul is 
past the aid 
Of all the Church may do — there is a 

place 
From which there's no redemption. 

K. Ed. And if I thought my faithful 
chaplain there. 
Thou shouldst there join him, priest ! — 

Go, watch, fast, pray. 
And let me have such prayers as will 

storm Heaven — 
None of your maim'd and mutter'd hunt- 
ing masses. 
Ab. (apart to Ch.a..). For God'? sake 

take hiiii off. 
Cha. Wilt thou compound, then. 
The tithes of Everingham 1 

K. Ed. I tell thee, if thou bear'st the 
keys of Heaven, 
Abbot, thou shalt not turn a bolt with 

them 
'Gainst any well-deserving English subject. 
Ab. (to'CHA.). We will compound and 
grant thee, too, a share 
I' the next indulgence. Thou dost need il 

much. 
And greatly 'twill avail thee. 

Cha. Enough — we're friends, and when 
occasion serves, 

I will strike in. 

[Looks as if towards the Scottish Army. 
K. Ed. Answer, proud Abbot ; is my 
chaplain's soul. 
If thou knowest aught on't, in the evil 
place ? 
Ch.\. My Liege, the Yorkshire men 
have gain'd the meadow. 
I see the pennon green of merry Sherwood. 
K. Ed. Then give the signal instant ! 
We have lost 
But too much time already. 

Ab. My Liege, your holy chaplain's 

blessed soul — 
K. Ed. To hell with it and thee ! Is 
this a time 
To speak of monks and chaplains .^ 

\Florish ofTritmpcts ansivej-ed by 
a distant sound of Bugles. 
See, Chandos, Percy — Ha, Saint George f 

Saint Edward ! 
See it descending now, the fatal bail- 
shower. 
The storm of England's wrath — sure, swift, 

resistless, 
Which no mail-coat can brook. — Brave 
English hearts ! 




y 





478 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



How close they shoot together I — as one 

eye 
Had aim'd five thousand shafts — as if one 

hand 
Had loosed five thousand bow-strings ! 

Per. The thick volley 

Darkens the air, and hides the sun from us. 
K. Ed. It falls on those shall see the 
sun no more. 
The winged, the resistless plague is with 

them. 
How their vex'd host is reeling to and 

fro, 
Like the chafed whale with fifty lances 

in him, 
They do not see, and cannot shun the 

wound. 
The storm is viewless as death's sable 

wing. 
Unerring as his scythe. 

Per. Horses and riders are going down 
together. 
'Tis almost pity to see nobles fall, 
And by a peasant's arrow. 

Bal. I could weep them, 

Although they are my rebels. 
Cha. (aside to Per.) His conquerors, 
he means who cast him out 
From his usurped kingdom. — (Aloitd^ 

'Tis the worst of it. 
That knights can claim small honor in 

the field 
Which archers win, unaided by our lances. 
K. Ed. The battle is not ended. 

yLooks towards the field. 
Not ended ? — scarce begun ! What horse 

are these. 
Rush from tlie thicket underneath the hill ? 
Per. They're Hainaulters, the followers 

of Queen Isabel. 
K. Ed. (hastily.) Hainaulters ! — thou 
art blind — wear Hainaulters 
Saint Andrew's silver cross ? — or would 

they charge 
Full on our archers, and make havoc of 

them ? — 
Bruce is alive again — ho, rescue ? rescue ! — 
Who was't survey'd the ground ? 
RiBA. Most loyal Liege— 
K. Ed. a rose hath fallen from thy 
chaplet,* Ribaumont- 

* The well-known expression by which Robert 
Bruce censured the negligence of Randolph. 
for permitting an English body of cavalry to 
pass his flank on the day preceding the battle 
of Bannockburn. 



RiBA. I'll v/in it back, or lay my head 
beside it. . [^Exit. 

K. Ed. Saint George ! Saint Edward ! 
Gentlemen, to horse, 

And to the rescue ! — Percy, lead the bill- 
men ; 

Chandos, do thou bring up the men-at- 
arms. — 

If yonder numerous host should now bear 
down 

Bold as their vanguard (to the Abbot), 
thou mayst pray for us. 

We may need good men's prayers. — To 
the rescue. 

Lords, to the rescue ! ha, Saint George ! 
Saint Edward ! {^Exeunt. 

Scene II. 

A part of the Field of Battle betwixt the 
two Main Armies. Tioniilts behind the 
scenes : alarums, and cries of '■^ Gordon 1 
a Gordon ! " " Swinton ! " &c. 

Enter, as victorious over the English van- 
guard, ViPONT, Reynald, and others, 

Vip. 'Tis sweet to hear these war-cries 

sound together, — 
Gordon and Swinton. 

Rey. 'Tis passing pleasant, yet 'tis 
strange withal. 
Faith, when at first I heard the Gordon's 

slogan 
Sounded so near me, I had nigh struck 

down 
The knave who cried it. 

Enter Swinton a7id Gordon. 
Swi. Pitch down my pennon in yon 

holly bush. 
GoR. Mine in the thorn beside it ; let 

them wave, 
As fought this morn their masters, side by 

side. 
Swi. Let the men rally, and restore 

their ranks 
Here in this vantage-ground — disorder'd 

chase 
Leads to disorder'd flight ; we have done 

our part, 
And if we're succor'd now, Plantagenet 
Must turn his bridle southward. — 
Reynald, spur to the Regent with the 

basnet 
Of stout De Grey, the leader of their van- 
guard ; 
Say, that in battle-front the Gordon slew 

him, 






HALIDON HILL. 



479 



And by that token bid him send us suc- 
cor. 
GoR. And tell him that when Selby's 
headlong charge 
Had well-nigh borne me down, Sir Alan 

smote him, 
I cannot send his helmet, never nutshell 
Went to so many shivers. — Harkye, 
grooms ! [ To those behind the scenes. 
Why do you let my noble steed stand 

stiffening 
After so hot a course ? 

Swi. Ay, breathe your horses, they'll 
have work anon, 
For Edward's men-at-arms will soon be 

on us, 
The flower of England, Gascony, and 

Flanders ; 
But with swift succor we will bide them 

bravely. — 
De Vipont, thou look'st sad. 

ViP. It is because I hold a Templar's 
sword 
Wet to the crossed hilt with Christian 
blood. 
Swi. The blood of English archers — 
what can gild 
A Scottish blade more bravely .? 

ViP. Even therefore grieve I for those 
gallant yeomen, 
England's peculiar and appropriate sons. 
Known in no other land. Each boasts his 

hearth 
And field as free as the best lord his 

barony, 
Owing subjection to no human vassalage. 
Save to their King and law. Hence are 

they resolute. 
Leading the van on every day of battle. 
As men who know the blessings they 

defend. 
Hence are they frank and generous in 

peace, 
As men who have their portion in its 

plenty. 
No other kingdom shows such worth and 

happiness 
Veil'd in such low estate — therefore I 
mourn them. 
Swi. I'll keep my sorrow for our native 
Scots, 
Who, spite of hardship, poverty, oppres- 
sion, 
Still follow to the field their Chieftain's 

banner, 
And die in the defence on't. 



GoR. And if I live and see my halls 
again, 
They shall have portion in the good they 

fight for. 
Each hardy follower shall have his field, 
His household hearth and sod-built home 

as free 
As ever Southron had. They shall be 

happy !— 
And my Elizabeth shall smile to see it ! — 
I have betray'd myself. 

Swi. Do not believe it. — 

Vipont, do thou look out from yonder 

height, 
And see what motion in the Scottish host. 
And in King Edward's. — \.Exit Vipont, 

Now will I counsel thee ; 
The Templar's ear is for no tale of love. 
Being wedded to his Order. But I tell 

thee. 
The brave young knight that hath no 

lady-love 
Is like a lamp unlighted ; his brave deeds, 
And its rich painting, do seem then most 

glorious. 
When the pure ray gleams through them. — 
Hath thy Elizabeth no other name ? 

GoR. Must I then speak of her to you, 
Sir Alan ? 
The thought of thee, and of thy matchless 

strength. 
Hath conjured phantoms up amongst her 

dreams. 
The name of Swinton hath been spell suf- 
ficient 
To chase the rich blood from her lovely 

cheek, 
And wouldst thou know hers ? 

Swi. I would, nay must. 

Thy father in the paths of chivalry, 

Should know the load-star thou dost rule 

thy course by. 

GoR. Nay, then, her name is — hark— 

[ Whispers. 

Swi. I know it well, that ancient 

northern house. 
GoR. O, thou shalt see its fairest grace 
and honor 
In my Elizabeth. And if music touch 

thee 

Swi. It did, before disasters had un- 
tuned me. 
GoR. O, her notes 
Shall hush each sad remembrance to ob 

livion. 
Or melt them to such gentleness of feeling 



'W 





4S0 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



That grief shall have its sweetness. Who, 

but she, 
Knows the wild harpings of our native land ? 
Wliether they lull the shepherd on his hill, 
Or wake the knight to battle ; rouse to 

merriment, 
Or soothe to sadness ; she can touch each 

mood. 
Princes and statesmen, chiefs renov^rn'd in 

arms. 
And gray-hair'd bards, contend which 

shall the first 
And choicest homage render to the en- 
chantress. 
Swi. You speak her talent bravely. 
GoR. Though you smile, 

I do not speak it half Her gift creative, 
New measures adds to every air she wakes ; 
Varying and gracing it with liquid sweet- 
ness, 
Like the wild modulation of the lark ; 
Now leaving, now returning to the strain ! 
To listen to her, is to seem to wander 
In some enchanted labyrinth of romance. 
Whence nothing but the lovely fairy's will, 
Who wove the spell, can extricate the 

wanderer. 
Methinks I hear her now! — 

Swi. Bless'd privilege 

Of youth ! There's scarce three minutes 

to decide 
'Twixt death and life, 'twixt triumph and 

defeat. 
Yet all his thoughts are in his lady's bower, 
List'ning her harping ! \^Enter Vipont. 

Where are thine, De Vipont ( 
ViP. On death — on judgment — on 

eternity ! 
For time is over with us. 

Swi. There moves not, then, one pennon 

to our aid, 
Of all that flutter yonder! 

ViP From the main English host come 

rushing forward 
Pennons enow — ay, and their Royal 

Standard. 
But ours stand rooted, as for crows to 

roost on. 
Swi. {^to himself^ I'll rescue him at 

least.— Young Lord of Gordon, 
Spur to the Regent — show the instant 

need 

GoR. I penetrate thy purpose ; but I go 

not. 
Swi. Not at my bidding 1 I thy sire 

in chivalry ? 



Thy leader in the battle?— I command 

thee ! 
GoR. No, thou wilt not command me 

seek my safety — 
For such is thy kind meaning — at the ex- 
pense 
Of the last hope which Heaven reserves foi 

Scotland. 
While 1 abid« no follower of mine 
Will turn his rein for life ; but were I gone, 
What power can stay them.'' and, our band 

dispersed. 
What sword shall for an instant stem yon 

host, 
And save the latest chance for victory ? 
ViP. The noble youth speaks truth ; and 

were he gone, 
There will not twenty spears be left with us. 
GoR. No, bravely as we have begun the 

field, 
So let us fight it out. The Regent's eyes, 
More certain than a thousand messages, 
Shall see us stand, the barrier of his host 
Against yon blustering storm. If not for 

honor, 
If not for warlike rule, tor shame at least 
He must bear down to aid us. 

Swi. Must it be so.' 

And am I forced to yield the sad consent. 
Devoting thy young life .'' O, Gordon, 

Gordon ! 
I do it as the patriarch doom'd his issue : 
1 at my country's, he at Heaven's com- 
mand ; 
But I seek vainly some atoning sacrifice, 
Rather than such a victim ! — (Trumpets?^ 

Hark, they come ! 
That music sounds not like thy lady's lute. 
GoR. Yet shall my lady's name mix with 

it gayly.— 
Mount, vassals, couch your lances, and 

cry, " Gordon I 
Gordon for Scotland and Elizabeth I " 

\Exeunt. Loud Alarums. 

SCENE III. 

Another part of tJie Field of Battle, adja- 
cent to the former Scene ^ 

Alarums. Enter Swinton, followed 
by Hob Hattely. 

Swi. Stand to it yet ! The man who 
flies to-day. 
May bastards warm them at his houseliold 
hearth! 



^ 



c^=h 






HA LID ON HILL. 



481 



Hob. That ne'er shall be my curse. 
My Magdalen 
Fs trusty as my broadsword. 

Swi. Ha, thou knave, 

Art tliou dismounted too ? 

Hob. I know, Sir Alan, 

You want no homeward guide ; so threw 

my reins 
Upon my palfrey's neck, and let him loose. 
Within an hour he stands before my gate ; 
Anil Magdalen will need no other token 
To bid the Melrose Monks say masses for 
me. 
Swi. Thou art resolved to cheat the 

halter, then ? 
Hob. It is my purpose, 

Having lived a thief, to die a brave man's 

death ; 
And never had I a more glorious chance 
for't. 
Swi. Here lies the way to it, knave. — 
Make in, make in, 
And aid young Gordon I 

\Exeuiit. Loud and lo7ig Alarums. 

After which the back Sccjie rises, 

and discovers Swinton o« t/ie 

ground, Gordon supporting 

hiin : both miich wojindcd. 

Swi. All are cut down — the reapers 

have pass'd o'er us. 

And hie to distant harvest. — My toil's over ; 

There lies my sickle. {Dropping his 

sword. ) Hand of mine again 
Shall never, never wield it 1 

GoR. O valiant leader, is thy light ex- 
tinguish'd ! 
That only beacon-flame which promised 

safety 
In this day's deadly wrack ! 

Swi. My lamp hath long been dim ' 
But thine, young Gordon, 
Just kindled, to be quench'd so suddenly, 
fere Scotland saw its splendor ! — 

GoR. Five thousand horse hung idly on 
yon hill. 
Saw us o'erpowered, and no one stirrd to 
aid us ! 
Swi. It was the Regent's envy. — Out ! 
— alasl 
Why blame I him ! — It was our civil dis- 
cord. 
Our selfish vanity, our jealous hatred. 
Which iramed this day of dole for our 

poor country. — 
Had thv brave father held yon leading 
stafi". 



As well his rank and valor might have 

claim'd it, 
We had not fall'n unaided. — How^ O how 
Is he to answer it, whose deed pre- 
vented 

GoR. Alas ! alas 1 the author of the 

death-feud. 
He has his reckoning too I for had your sons 
And num'rous vassals lived, we had lack'd 

no aid. 
Swi. May God assoil the dead, and 

him who follows ! 
We've drank the poison'd beverage which 

we brew'd ! 
Have sown the wind, and reap'd the ten- 
fold whirlwind ! — 
But thou, brave youth, whose nobleness of 

heart 
Pour'd oil upon the wounds our hate in- 
flicted ; 
Thou, who hast done no wrong, need'st 

no forgiveness, — 
Why should'st thou share our punishment • 
GoR. All need forgiveness — (distant 

alar 21 ins.) Hark, in yonder shout. 

Did the main battles counter ! 

S\yi. Look on the field, brave Gordon, 

if thou canst. 
And tell me how the day goes. — But I 

guess, 

Too surely do I guess 

GoR._ All's lost! all's lost!— Of the 

main Scottish host. 
Some wildly fly, and some rush wildly 

forward ; 
.\nd some there are who seem to turn 

their spears 
Against their countrymen. 

Swi. Rashness, and cowardice, and 

secret treason, 
Combine to ruin us ; and our hot valor, 
Devoid of discipline, is madmen's strength, 
More fatal unto friends than enemies I 
I'm glad that these dim eyes shall see no 

more on't. — 
Let thy hands close them, Gordon — I will 

dream 
My fair-hair'd William renders me that 

office I [ Dies. 

GoR. And, Swinton, I will think I do 

that duty 
To my dead father. 

Enter De Vipont. 
ViP. Fly, fly, brave youth !— A hand 
ful of thy followers. 





1 






/^ ^ 


U "-, = ^1 


^^Thx 




i 


^^<- ' - . h-^t 


y, 


I 


«■ 


[p ^ 










482 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 


vs 






The scatter'd gleaning of this desperate 


Through all these Scottish wars, but kno^ 






day, 


his crest ? 








Ij Still hover yonder to essay thy rescue — 
[ O linger not' — I'll be your guide to them. 

GOR. Look there, and bid me fly I — The 
oak has fall'n ; 

And the young ivy bush, which leam'd to 
climb 

By its support, must needs partake its fall. 
ViP. Swinton ? Alas ! the best, the 
bravest, strongest, 

And sagest of our Scottish chivalry ' 

Forgive on« moment, if to save the living, 

My tongue should wrong the dead. — Gordon, 
bethink thee, 

Thou dost but stay to perish with the 
corpse 

Of him who slew thy father. 

GoR. Ay, but he was my sire in chivalry ! 

He taught my youth to soar above the 
promptings 

Of mean and selfish vengeance ; gave my 
youth 

A name that sliall not die even on this death- 
spot, 

Records shall tell this field had not been 
lost, 

Had all men fought like Swinton and like 
Gordon. [ Trinnfcts. 

Save thee, De Vipont. — Hark 1 the South- 
ron trumpets. 
ViP. Nay, without thee 1 stir not. 

Enter Edward, Chandos, Percy, 

BalIOL, dr't". 

Gor. Ay, they come on — The Tyrant and 
the Traitor, 
Workman and tool, Plantagenet and 

Baliol— 
for a moment's strength in this poor arm, 
To do one glorious deed ! 

\He rushes on the English, but is 
made prisoner -with Vipont. 
K. Ed. Disarm them — harm them not ; 
though it was they 
iVIade havoc on the archers of our van- 
guard. 
They and that bulky champion. Where is 
he? 
Cha. Here lies the giant ! Say his name, 
young Knight? 
. Gor. Let it suffice, he was a man this 
rsl^ morning. 


The sable boar chain'd to the leafy oak, J (j 
And that huge mace still seen where war 
was wildest ! 
K. Ed. 'Tis Alan Swinton ! 
Grim Chamberlain, who in my tent at 

Weardale, 
Stood by my startled couch with torch and 

mace, 
When the Black Douglas' war-cry waked my 
camp. 
Gor. (sinking down). If thus thou 
know'st him. 
Thou wilt respect his corpse. 

K. Ed, As belted Knight and crowned 

King, I will. 
Gor. And let mine 
Sleep at his side, in token that our death 
Ended the feud of Swinton and of Gordon. 
K. Ed. It is the Gordon 1— Is there aught 
beside 
Edward can do to honor bravery, 
Even in an enemy ? 

GoR. Nothing but this ; 
Let not base Baliol, with his touch or look. 
Profane my corpse or Swinton's. I've some 

breath still, 
Enough to say — Scotland — Elizabeth ! 

YDies. 
Cha. Baliol, I would not brook such 
dying looks. 
To buy the crown you aim at. 

K. Ed, {to ViP.) Vipont, thy crossed 
shield shows ill in warfare 
Against a Christian king. 

VlP. That Christian king is warring upon 
Scotland. 
I was a Scotsman ere I was a Templar, 
Sworn to my country ere I knew my Order. 
K. Ed, I will but know thee as a Chris- 
tian champion. 
And set thee free unransom'd. 

Enter Abbot of Walthamstow. 
Ab. Heaven grant your Majesty 
Many such glorious days as this has been ! 
K, Ed. It is a day of much and high ad- 
vantage ; 
Glorious it might have been, had all our foes 
Fought like these two brave champions.— 

Strike tlie drums, . 








Sound trumpets, and pursue the fugitives, ct 


-k 






Cha. I question'd thee in sport. I do 


Till the Tweed's eddies whem them. 








not need 


Berwick's render'd — 








Thy information, youth. Who that has 


These wars, I trust, will soon find lasting 








fought 


close. 












31 


r 




^^ 


1'^ 




5 


"v* 




j 






— • •^ 






J . b 


•' 













MACDUFF'S CROSS. 



INTRODUCTION. 

These few scenes had the honor to be included in a Miscellany, published in the year 1S23, 
by Mrs. Joanna Baillie, and are here reprinted, to unite them with the trifles of the same kind 
which owe their birth to the author. The singular history of the Cross and Law of Clan Mac- 
Duff is given, at length enough to satisfy the keenest antiquary, in Tlie Ulinstrelsy of the Scot- 
tish Border. It is here only necessary to state, that the Cross was a place of refuge to any person 
related to MacDuff, within the ninth degree, who, having committed homicide in sudden quarrel, 
should reach this place, prove his descent from the Thane of Fife, and pay a certain penalty. 

The shaft of the Cross was destroyed at the Reformation. The huge block of stone which 
served for its pedestal is still in existence near the town of Newburgh, on a kind of pass which 
commands the county of Fife to the southward, and to the north the windings of the magnificent 
Tay and fertile country of Angusshire. The Cross bore an inscription, which, is transmitted to 
us in an unintelligible form by Sir Robert Sibbald. 

Abbotsford, Jamiary 1830. 



MRS. JOANNA BAILLIE, 

AUTHORESS OP 

"THE PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS." 



PRELUDE. 



Nay, smile not, Lady, when I speak of 
witchcraft. 

And say that still there lurks amongst our 
glens 

Some touch of strange enchantment.— 
Mark that fragment, 

I mean that rough-hewn block of massive 
stone, 

Placed on the summit of this mountain 
pass, 

Commanding prospect wide o'er field and 
fell. 

And peopled village and extended moor- 
land, 

And the wide ocean and majestic Tay, 

To the far distant Grampians. — Do not 
deem it 

A loosen'd portion of the neighboring 
rock, 

Detach'd by storm and thunder, — 'twas the 
pedestal 

On which in ancient times, a Cross was 
rear'd, 

Carved o'er with words which foil'd philo- 
logists ; 

And the events it did commemorate 



Were dark, remote, and undistinguishable, 

As were the mystic characters it bore. 
But, mark, — a wizard, born on Avon's 

bank. 
Tuned but his harp to this wild northern 

theme. 
And, lo ! the scene is hallow'd. None shall 

pass, 
Now, or in after days, beside that stone. 
But he shall have strange visions ; thoughts 

and words. 
That shake, or rouse, or thrill the human 

heart, 
Shall rush upon his memory when he hears 
The spirit-stirring name of this rude 

symbol ; — 
Oblivious ages, at that simple spell, 
Shall render back their terrors with their 

woes, 
Alas ! and with their crimes — and the proud 

phantoms 
Shall move with step familiar to his eye. 
And accents which, once heard, the ear for- 
gets not. 
Though ne'er again to list them. Siddons, 

thine, 

<4S3) 



^ 



w 





484 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Thou matchless Siddons ! thrill upon our 

ear; 
And on our eye thy lofty Brother's form 
Rises as Scotland's monarch. — But, to 

thee, 
Joanna, why to thee speak of such visions ? 
Thine own wild wand can raise them. 

Vet since thou wilt an idle tale of mine. 



Take one which scarcely is of worth 

enough 
To give or to withhold. — Our time 

creeps on, 
Fancy grows colder as the silvery hair 
Tells the advancing winter of our life. 
But if it be of worth enough to please, 
That work it owes to her who set the task; 
If otherwise, the fault rests with the author. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

NiNIAN, I ,^ , r r ■ J 

Waldhave, 1 ^^'"^' ofLmdores. 

LiNDESAY, ) e w 7 d 

Maurice Berkeley, } ^"'*^"^' ^'"'°'''' 



Scene. 

The summit of a Rocky Pass near to New- 
burgh, about two miles frotn the ancient 
Abbey of Lindores, in Fife. Jn the 
centre is MacDi<ff's Cross, an a7ttique 
Mommient : and at a small distance, 
on one side, a Chapel with a lamf 
burning. 

Enter, as having ascended the Pass, 
NiNiAN and Waldhave, Monks of 
Lindores. Ninian crosses himself, and 
seetns to recite his devotions. Wald- 
have stands gasing on the frosfect, as if 
in deep contemplation. 

NiN. Here stands the Cross, good brother, 
consecrated 
By the bold Thane unto his patron saint 
Magridius, once a brother of our house. 
Canst thou not spare an ave or a creed? 
Or hath the steep ascent exhausted you ? 
You trode it stoutly, though 'twas rough 
and toilsome. 
Wal. I have trode a rougher. 
NiN. _ _ On the Highland hills— 

Scarcely within our sea-girt province here, 
Unless upon the Lomonds or Bennarty. 
Wal. I spoke not of the literal path, good 
father, 
But of tlie road of life which I have 

travell'd, 
Ere I assumed this habit ; it was bounded, 
Hedged in, and limited by earthly pros- 
pects, 



As ours beneath was closed by dell and 

thicket. 
Here we see wide and far, and the broad 

sky, 
With wide horizon, opens full around. 
While earthly objects dwindle. Brother 

Ninian, 
Fain would I hope that mental elevation 
Could raise me equally o'er worldly 

thoughts. 
And place me nearer heaven. 

NiN. 'Tis good morality.— But yet forget 
not. 
That though we look on heaven from this 

high eminence. 
Yet doth the Prince of all the airy space, 
Arch-foe of man, possess the realms be- 
tween. 
Wal. Most true, good brother ; and men 
may be farther 
From the bright heaven they aim at, even 

because 
They deem themselves secure on't. 

NiN. (after a paiise). You do gaze- 
Strangers are wont to do so — on the pros- 
pect. 
Yon is the Tay roll'd down from Highland 

hills. 
That rests his waves, after so rude a race, 
In the fair plains of Gowrie — further west- 
ward. 
Proud Stirling rises — yonder to the east, 
Dundee, the gift of God, and fair Montfose, 
And still more northward lie the ancient 
towers- — 





MACDUFF'S CROSS. 



485 



Wal. OfEdzell. 

NiN. How? know you the 

towers of Edzell ? 
Wal. I've heard of them. 
NiN. Then have you 

heard a tale, 
Which when he tells, the peasant shakes his 

head, 
And shims the mouldering and deserted 
walls, 
Wal. Why, and by whom deserted? 
NiN. Long the tale — 

Enough to say that the last Lord of 

Edzell, 
Bold Louis Lindesay, had a wife, and 

found 

Wal. Enough is said, indeed — since a 
weak woman, 
Ay, and a tempting fiend, lost Paradise, 
When man was innocent. 

NiN. They fell at strife, 

Men say, on slight occasion : that fierce 

Lindesay 
Did bend his sword against De Berkeley's 

breast. 
And that the lady threw herself between: 
That then De Berkeley dealt the Baron's 

death-wound. 
Enough, that from that time De Berkeley 

bore 
A spear in foreign wars. But, it is said. 
He hath return'd of late ; and, therefore, 

brother, 
The Prior hath ordain'd our vigil here, 
To watch the privilege of the sanctuary. 
And rights of Clan MacDuff. 

Wal. What rights are these ? 

NiN Most true; you are but newly come 
from Rome 
And do not know our ancient usages 
Know then, when fell Macbeth beneath the 

arm 
Of the predestined knight, unborn of 

wonian. 
Three boons the victor ask'd, and thrice 

did Malcolm, 
Stooping the sceptre by the Thane re- 
stored. 
Assent to his request. And hence the 

rule. 
That first when Scotland's King assumes 

the crown, 
MacDuff's descendant rings his brow 

with it: 
And hence, when Scotland's King calls 
forth his host, 



MacDuff's descendant leads the van in 

battle : 
And last, in guerdon of the crown restored, 
Red with the blood of the usurping tyrant, 
The right was granted m succeeding time. 
That if a kinsman of the Thane of Fife 
Commit a slaughter on a sudden impulse. 
And fly for refuge to this Cross MacDuff, 
For the Thane's sake he shall find sano- 

tuary ; 
For here must the avenger's step be staid 
And here the panting homicide find safety 
Wal. And here a brother of your order 
watches. 
To see the custom of your place observed ? 
NiN. Even so; — such is our convent's 
holy right. 
Since Saint Magridius — blessed be his 

memory ! — 
Did by a vision warn the Abbot Eadmir. 
And chief we watch, when there is bicker- 
ing 
Among the neighboring nobles, now most 

likely 
From this return of Berkeley from abroad. 
Having the Lindesay's blood upon his 
hand. 
Wal. The Lindesay, then, was loved 

among his friends? 
NiN. Honor'd and fear'd he was — but 
little loved; 
For even his bounty bore a show of stern- 
ness . 
And when his passions waked, he was a 

Sathan 
Of wrath and injury. 

Wal How now. Sir Priest! ( fiercely. \ 
— Forgive me — {recollectmg himself 1 
— I was dreaming 
Of an old baron who did bear about him 
Some touch of your Lord Reynold. 

NiN. Lindesay's name, my brother, 
Indeed was Reynold ; — and methinks, more- 
over. 
That, as you spoke even now, he would have 

spoken. 
I brought him a petition from our convent; 
He granted straight, but in such tone and 

manner. 
By my good saint ! I thought myself scarce 

safe 
Till Tay roll'd broad between us. I must 

now 
Unto the chapel — meanwhile the watch is 

thine : 
And, at thy word, the hurrying fugitive, 






486 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Should such arrive, must here find sanc- 
tuary ; 
And, at thy word, the fiery-paced avenger 
Must stop his bloody course — e'en as swoln 

Jordan 
ControU'd his waves, soon as they touch'd 

the feet 
Of those who bore the ark. 

Wal. Is this my charge ? 

NiN Even so ; and 1 am near, should 

chance require me. 
At nndnight I relieve you on your watch. 
When we may taste together some refresh- 
ment : 
I have cared for it ; and for a fiask of 

wine — 
There is no sin, so that we drink it not 
Until the midnight hour, when lauds have 

toll'd. 
Farewell a while, and peaceful watch be 

with you ! 

\Exit towards the Chapel. 

Wal It is not with me, and alas ! alas ! 

I know not where to seek it. This monk's 

mind 
Is with his cloister match'd, nor lacks more 

room. 
Its petty duties, formal ritual, 
Its humble pleasures and its paltry troubles. 
Fill up his round of life ; even as some 

reptiles, 
They say, are moulded to the very shape, 
And all the angles of the rocky crevice, 
in which they live and die. But for mv 

self. 
Retired in passion to the narrow cell, 
Couching my tired limbs in its recesses. 
So ill-adapted am I to its limits. 

That every attitude is agony. 

How now ! what brings him back ? 

{^Re-enter Ninian. 
NiN. Look to your watch, my brother, — 

horsemen come ; 
I heard their tread when kneeling in the 

chapel 
Wal {looking to a distance'). My 

thoughts have wrapt me more then 

thy devotion. 
Else had I heard the tread of distant horses 
Farther than thou couldst hear the sacring 

bell: 
But now in truth they come : — flight and 

pursuit 
Are sights I've been long strange to. 
Nm. See how they gallop down the 

opposing hill ! 



Yon gray steed bounding down the head 

long path. 
As on the level meadow while the black. 
Urged by the rider with his naked sword, 
Stoops on his prey, as 1 have seen the lalcon 
Dashing upon the heron. — Thou dost 

frown 
And clench thy hand, as if it grasp'd a 
weapon ? 
Wal. 'Tis but for shame to see a man 
fly thus 
While only one pursues him. Coward, 

turn ! — 
Turn thee, I say ! thou art as stout as he, 
And well mayst match thy single sword 

with his — 
Shame, that a man should rein a steed like 

thee, 
Yet fear to turn his front against a foe ! — 
I am ashamed to look on them. 

NiN. Yet look again ; they quit their 
horses now. 
Unfit for the rough path : the fugitive 
Keeps the advantage still. They strain 
toward us. 
Wal I'll not believe that ever the bold 
Thane 
Rear'd up his Cross to be a sanctuary 
To the base coward who shunn'd an equal 

combat. — 
How 's this .? — that look, that mien — mine 
eyes grow dizzy ! 
NiN. He comes !— thou art a novice on 
this watch, — 
Brother, I'll take the word and speak to 

him. 
Pluck down thy cowl : know that we 

spiritual champions 
Have honor to maintain, and must not 

seem 
To quail before the laity. 

[W.\LDHAVE lets dozun his cowl, 

and steps back. 
Enter Maurice Brrkeley. 
NiN. Who art thou, stranger? speak thy 

name and purpose. 
Ber. I claim the privilege of Clan Mac- 
Duff. 
My name is Maurice Berkeley, and my 

lineage 
Allies me nearly with thy Thane of Fife. 
NiN. Give us to know the cause of 

sanctuary ? 
Ber. Let him show it, 

Against whose violence I claim the privilege 










/^. ^ 


M 


5 C |_J K. 




/x ^ 


g — 


a 5— \-^ 


r ^'1 


r\ ft 




X 




E 


MACDUFF'S CROSS 487 






nter Lindesay with his s-vuurd drawn. 


Your cause of difference ; and, Lord Linde 




He rushes at Berkeley ; Ninian in- 


say, thou 






J L terposes. 


Be first to speak them. ^ \^ 








LiN. Ask the blue welkin — ask the silver \ 






NiN. Peace, in the name of Saint Ma 


Tay, 






gndius ! 


The Northern Grampians — all things know 






Peace, in our Prior's name, and m the name 


my wrongs ; 






Ot that dear symbol, which did purchase 


But ask not me to tell them, while the 






peace 


villain, 






And good-will towards man ! I do com- 


Who wrought them, stands and listens with 






mand thee 


a smile. 






To sheathe thy sword, and stir no contest 


NiN, It IS said — 






here. 


Since you refer us thus to general fame — 






Lin, One charm I'll try first, 


That Berkeley slew thy brother, the Lord 






To lure the craven from the enchanted circle 


Louis, 






Which he hath harbor'd in. — Hear you, 


In his own halls at Edzell 






De Berkeley, 


Lin. Ay, in his halls — 






This IS my brother's sword — the hand it 


In his own halls, good father, that's the 






arms 


word. 






Is weapon'd to avenge a brother's death : — 


In his own house he slew him, while the wine 






If thou hast heart to step a furlong off, 


Pass'd on the board between ! The gallant 






And change three blows, — even for so short 


Thane 






a space 


Who wreak'd Macbeth's inhospitable mur- 






As these good men may say an ave- 


der. 






marie, — 


Rear'd not yon Cross to sanction deeds 






So, Heaven be good to me 1 I will forgive 


like these. 






thee 


Ber. Thou sayst I came a guest ! — 1 






Thy deed and all its consequences 


came a victim — 






Ber. Were not my right hand fetter'd 


A destined victim, train'd on to the dooir 






by the thought 


His frantic jealousy prepared for me. 






That slaying thee were but a double guilt 


He fix'd a quarrel on me, and we fought. 






In which to steep my soul, no bridegroom 


Can I forget the form that came between us, 






ever 


And perish'd by his sword? 'Twas then I 






Step'd forth to trip a measure with his bride 


fought 






More joyfully than I, young man, would 


For vengeance,— until then I guarded life. 






rush 


But then I sought to take it, and prevail'd. 






To meet thy challenge. 


Lin. Wretch ! thou didst first dishonor 






Lin. He quails, and shuns to look upon 


to thy victim. 






my weapon. 


And then didst slay him ! 






Yet boasts himself a Berkeley ! 


Ber. There is a busy fiend tugs at my 






Ber. Lindesay, and if there were no 


heart. 






deeper cause 


But I will struggle with it !— Youthful 






For shunning thee than terror of thy 


knight, 






weapon. 


My heart is sick of war, my hand of slaughter, 






That rock-hewn Cross as soon should start 


I come not to my lordships, or my land, 






and stir, 


But just to seek a spot in some cold cloister, 






Because a shepherd-boy blow horn be- 


Which I may kneel on hving, and, when 






neath it. 


dead, 






As I for brag of thine. 


Which may suffice to cover me. 






NiN. I charge you both, and in the 


Forgive me that I caused your brother's 






name of Heaven, 


death; 






Breathe no defiance on this sacred spot. 


And I forgive the injurious terms ^ 






!\ n Where Christian men must bear them 


With which thou taxest me. ts rt 






peacefully, 


Lin. Take worse and blacker — Mur- 






On pain of the Church thunders Calmly 


derer ! and adulterer 1 






tell 


Art thou not moved yet? 






it 






X- - 


(. 1 J i. \ n 


- py 









c-i 




488 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Ber. Do not press me further. 

The hunted stag, even when he seeks the 

thicket, 
Compell'd to stand at bay, grows danger- 
ous ! 
Most true thy brother perish'd by my hand, 
And if you term it murder — I must bear it. 
Thus far my patience can ; but if thou 

brand 
The purity of yonder martyr'd saint, 
Whom then my sword but poorly did 

avenge, 
With one injurious word, come to the valley, 
And I will show thee how it shall be an- 

swer'd ! 
NiN. This heat. Lord Berkeley, doth 

but ill accord 
With thy late pious patience. 

Ber. Father, forgive, and let me stand 

excused 
To Heaven and thee, if patience brooks no 

more. 
I love this lady — fondly, truly loved — 
Loved her, and was beloved, ere yet her 

father 
Conferr'd her on another. While she lived, 
Each thought of her was to my soul as hal- 

low'd 
As those I send to Heaven ; and on her 

grave, 
Her bloody, early grave, while this poor 

hand 
Can hold a sword, shall no one cast a scorn. 
Lin. Follow me. Thou shalt hear me 

call the adulteress 
Bv her right name. I'm glad there is yet a 

spur 
Can rouse thy sluggard mettle. 

Ber. Make then obeisance to the bless- 
ed Cross, 
For it shall be on earth thy last devotion. 

[ They are going off. 
Wal. {rttshing forward) Madmen, 

stand ! — 
Stay but one second — answer but one ques- 
tion. — 
There, Maurice Berkeley, canst thou look 

upon 
That blessed sign, and swear thou'st spoken 

truth ? 
Ber. I swear by Heaven, 



And by the memory of that murder'd inno 

cent. 
Each seeming charge against her was as 

false 
As our blessed Lady's spotless !— Hear, 

each saint ! 
Hear me, thou holy rood ! — hear me from 

heaven, 
Tliou martyr'd excellence ! — hear me from 

penal fire, 
(For sure not yet thy guilt is expiated !) 

Stern ghost of her destroyer ! 

Wal. (throws back his cowl). He hears ! 

he heare 1 thy spell hath raised the 

dead. 
Lin. My brother ! and alive ! — 
Wal. Alive, — but yet, my Richard, 

dead to thee. 
No tie of kindred binds me to the world ; 
All were renounced, when, with reviving 

life. 
Came the desire to seek the sacred cloister. 
Alas, in vain 1 for to that last retreat, 
Like to a pack of bloodhounds in full 

chase, 
My passion and my wrongs have follow'd 

me, 
Wrath and remorse — and, to fill up the cry. 
Thou hast brought vengeance hither. 

Lin. I but sought 

To do the act and duty of a brother. 
Wal. 1 ceased to be so when I left the 

world ; 
But if he can forgive as I forgive, 
God sends me here a brother 

enemy, 
To pray for me and with me. 

canst, 
De Berkeley, give tliine hand, — 

Ber. (gives his hand). It is the will 

Of Heaven, made manifest in thy pre- 
servation. 
To inhibit farther bloodshed ; for De 

Berkeley, 
The votary Maurice lays the title down. 
Go to his halls. Lord Richard, where a 

maiden. 
Kin to his blood, and daughter in affection, 
Heirs his broad lands ; — If thou canst love 

her, Lindesay, 
Woo her, and be successful. 



my 
If thou 






AUCHINDRANE; OR, THE AYRSHIRE TRAGEDY. 



Cur aliquid vidi? cur noxia lumina feci! 
Cur imprudent! cognita culpa mihi est? 

Ovidii Tristium, Liber Secundus, 



PREFACE. 

There is not perhaps, upon record, a tale of horror which g-ives a more perfect picture 
than is afforded by the present, of the violence of our ancestors, or the complicated crimes 
into which they were hurried, by what their wise, but ill-enforced, laws termed the 
heathenish and accursed practice of Deadly Feud. The author has tried to extract some 
dramatic scenes out of it; but he is conscious no exertions of his can increase the horror 
of that which is in itself so iniquitous. Yet, if we look at modern events, we must not 
too hastily venture to conclude that our own times have so much the superiority over 
former days as we might at first be tempted to infer. Our great object has indeed been 
obtained, the power of the laws extends over the country universally, and if criminals at 
present sometimes escape punishment, this can only be by eluding justice, — not, as of 
old, by defying it. 

But the motives which influence modern ruffians to commit actions at which we pause 
with wonder and horror, arise, in a great measure, from the thirst of gain. For the hope 
of lucre, we have seen a wretch reduced to his fate, under the pretext that he was to share 
in amusement and conviviality; and, for gold, we have seen the meanest of wretches 
deprived of life, and their miserable remains cheated of the grave. 

The loftier, if equally cruel, feelings of pride, ambition, and love of vengeance, were 
the idols of our forefathers, while the caitiffs of our city bend to Mammon, the meanest of 
the spirits who fell. The criminals, therefore, of former times, drew their hellish inspira- 
tion from a loftier source than is known to modern villains. The fever of unsated ambi- 
tion, the frenzy of ungratified revenge, the per Jervidum ingenium Scotorum, stigmatized 
by our jurists and our legislators, held life but as passing breath ; and such enormities as 
now sound like the acts of a madman, were then the familiar deeds of every offended 
noble. With these observations we proceed to our story. 

John Muir, or Mure, of Auchindrane, the contriver and executor of the following 
cruelties, was a gentleman of an ancient family and a good estate in the west of Scotland; 
bold, ambitious, treacherous to the last degree, and utterly unconscientious, — a Richard 
the Third in private life, inaccessible alike to pity and remorse. His view was to raise the 
power and extend the grandeur of his own family. This gentleman had married the 
daughter of Sir Thomas Kennedy of Barganie, who was, excepting the Earl of Cassilis, 
the most important person in all Carrick, the district of Ayrshire which he inhabited, and 
where the name of Kennedy held so great a sway as to give rise to the popular rhyme, — 

" Twixt Wigton and the town of Air, 
Portpatrick and the Cruives of Cree, 
No man need think for to bide there, 
Unless he court Saint Kennedie. " 

Now, Mure of Auchindrane, who had promised himself high advancement by means 
of his father-in-law, Barganie, saw, with envy and resentment, that his influence remained 
second and inferior to the House of Cassilis, chief of all the Kennedys. The Earl was 
indeed a minor, but his authority was maintained, and his affairs well managed, by his 
uncle. Sir Thomas Kennedy of Cullayne, the brother of the deceased Earl, and tutor and 
guardian to the present. This worthy gentleman supported his nephew's dignity and the 
credit of the house so effectually, that Barganie's consequence was much thrown into the 
shade, and the ambitious Auchindrane, his son-in-law, saw no better remedy than to 
remove so formidable a rival as Cullayne by violent means. 

For this purpose, in the year of God 1597, he came with a party of followers to the 
town of Maybole (where Sir Thomas Kennedy of Cullayne then resided), and lay in am- 
bush in an orchard, through which he knew his destined, victim was to pass, in returning 
homewards from a house where he was engaged to sup. Sir Thomas Kennedy came 
alone, and unattended, when he was suddenly fired upon by Auchindrane and his accom- 
plices, who, having missed their aim, drew their swords, and rushed upon him to slay 
him. But the party thus assailed at disadvantage, had the good fortune to hide himself 








490 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



for that time in a ruinous house, where he lay concealed till the inhabitants of the place 
came to his assistance. 

Sir Thomas Kennedy prosecuted Mure for this assault, who, finding himself in danger 
from the law, made a sort of apology and agreement with the Lord of Cullayne, to whose 
daughter he united his eldest son, in testimony of the closest friendship in the future. 
This agreement was sincere on the part of Kennedy, who, after it had been entered into, 
showed himself Auchindrane's friend and assistant on all occasions. But it was most 
false and treacherous on that of Mure, who continued to nourish the purpose of murdering 
his new friend and ally on the first opportunity. 

Auchindrane's first attempt to effect this was by means of the young Gilbert Kennedy 
of Barganie (the old Barganie, Auchindrane's father-in-law, was dead), whom he per- 
suaded to brave the Earl of Cassilis, as one who usurped an undue influence over the 
rest of the name. Accordingly, the hot-headed youth, at the instigation of Auchindrane, 
rode past the gate of the Earl of Cassilis, without waiting on his chief, or sending him 
any message of civility. This led to mutual defiance, being regarded by the Earl, accord- 
ing to the ideas of the time, as a personal insult. Both parties took the field with their 
foUowers, at the head of about 250 men on each side. Barganie, with the rashness of 
headlong courage, and Auchindrane, fired by deadly enmity to the House of Cassilis, 
made a precipitate attack on the Earl, whose men were strongly posted, and under cover. 
They were received by a heavy iire. Barganie was slain. Mure of Auchindrane, severely 
wounded in the thigh, became unable to sit his horse, and, the leaders thus slain or 
disabled, their party drew oft' without continuing the action. It must be particularly 
observed, that Sir Thomas Kennedy remained neuter in this quarrel, considering his con- 
nection with Auchindrane as too intimate to be broken even by his desire to assist his 
nephew. 

For this temperate and honorable conduct he met a vile reward ; for Auchindrane, in 
resentment of the loss of his relative Barganie, and the downfall of his ambitious hopes, 
continued his practices against the life of Sir Thomas of Cullayne, though totally inno- 
cent of contributing to either. Chance favored his wicked purpose. 

The Knight of Cullayne, finding himself obliged to go to Edinburgh on a particular 
day, sent a message by a servant to Mure, in which he told him, in the most unsuspecting 
confidence, the purpose of his journey, and named the road which he proposed to take, 
inviting Mure to meet him at Duppill, to the west of the town of Ayr, a place appointed, 
for the purpose of giving him any commissions which he might have for Edinburgh, aad 
assuring his treacherous ally he would attend to any business which he might have in the 
Scottish metropolis as anxiously as to his own. Sir Thomas Kennedy'^ message was 
carried to the town of Maybole, where his messenger, for some trivial reason, had the 
impost committed to writing by a school-master in that town, and despatched it to its 
destination by means of a poor student, named Dalrymple, instead of carrying it to the 
house of Auchindrane in person. 

This suggested to Mure a diabolical plot. Having thus received tidings of Sir Thomas 
Kennedy's motions, he conceived the infernal purpose of having the confiding friend who 
sent the information, waylaid and murdered at the place appointed to meet with him, not 
•only in friendship, but for the purpose of rendering him service. He dismissed the 
messenger Dalrymple, cautioning the lad to carry back the letter to Maybole, and to say 
that he had not found him, Auchindrane, in his house. Having taken this precaution, he 
proceeded to instigate the brother of the slain Gilbert of Barganie, Thomas Kennedy of 
Drumurghie by name, and Walter Muir of Cloncaird, a kinsman of his own, to take this 
opportunity of revenging Barganie's death. The fiery young men were easily induced to 
undertake the crime. They waylaid the unsuspecting Sir Thomas of Cullayne at the 
place appointed to meet the traitor Auchindrane, and the murderers having in company 
five or six servants, well mounted and armed, assaulted and cruelly murdered him with 
many wounds. They then plundered the dead corpse of his purse, containing a thousand 
merks in gold, cut off the gold buttons which he wore on his coat, and despoiled the body 
of some valuable rings and jewels. 

The revenge due for his uncle's murder was keenly pursued by the Earl of Cassilis. 
As the murderers fled from trial, they were declared outlaws; which doom, being pro- 
nounced by three blasts of a horn, was called " being put to the horn, and declared the 
king's rebel." Mure of Auchindrane was strongly suspected of having been the instiga- 
tor of the crime. But he conceived there could be no evidence to prove his guilt if he 
could keep the boy Dalrymple out of the way, who delivered the letter which made him 
acquainted with Cullayne's journey, and the place at which he meant to halt. On the con- 
trary, he saw, that if the lad could be produced at the trial, it would afford ground of fatal 
presumption, since it could be then proved that persons so nearly connected with him as 
Kennedy and Cloncaird had left his house, and committed the murder at tiie very spot 
which Cullayne had fixed for their meeting. 






A UCHINDRANK. 



491 



To avoid this imminent dar.ger, Mure brought Dalrymple to his house, and detained him there 
for several weeks. But tlie youth tiring of this confinement, Mure sent him to reside with a 
friend, Montgomery of Slcelhuorly, wlio maintained liim under a borrowed name, amid the desert 
regions of the then almost savage island of Arran. Being confident ni the absence of this material 
witness, Auchindrane, uistead of flying, like his agents Drumurghie and Cloncaird, presented 
himself boldly at the bar, demanded a fair trial, and offered his person m combat to the death 
against any of Lord Cassilis's friends who might impugn his innocence. This audacity was suc- 
cessful, and he was dismissed without trial. 

.Still, however. Mure did not consider himself safe, so long as Dalrymple was within the realm 
of Scotland ; and the danger grew more pressing when he learned that the lad had become nn- 
patient of the restrauit which he sustained in the island of Arran, and returned to some of his 
friends in Ayrshire. Mure no sooner heard of this than he again obtained possession of the boy's 
person, and a second time concealed hnn at Auchindrane, until he found an opportunity to trans- 
port him to the Low Countries, where he contrived to have him enlisted in Buccleuch's regiment 
trusting, doubtless, that some one of the numerous chances of war might destroy the poor young 
man whose lite was so dangerous to him. 

But after five or six years' uncertain safety, bought at the expense of so much violence and 
cunning, Auchindrane's fears were exasperated into frenzy, when he found this dangerous witness, 
having escaped from all the perils of climate and battle, had Jeft, or been discharged from, the 
Legion of Borderers, and had again accomplished his return to Ayrshire. There is ground to sus- 
pect that Dalrymple knew the nature of the hold which he possessed over Auchindrane, and was 
desirous of extorting from his fears some better provision than he had found either ni Arran or 
the Netherlands. But if so, it was a fatal experiment to tamper with the fears of such a man as 
Auchindrane, who determined to rid himself effectually of this unhappy young man. 

Mure now lodged him in a house of his own, called Chapeldonan, tenanted by a vassal and 
connection of his, called James Bannatyne. This man he commissioned to meet him at ten o'clock 
at night on the sea-sands lear Girvan, and bring with him the unfortunate Dalrymple, the object 
of his fear and dread. The victim seems to have come with Bannatyne without the least suspi- 
cion, though such might have been raised by the time and place appointed for the meeting. When 
Bannatyne and Dalrymple came to the appointed spot, Auchindrane met them, accompanied by 
his eldest son, James. Old Auchindrane, having taken Bannatyne aside, imparted his bloody 
purpose of ridding himself of Dalrymple forever, by murdering him on the spot. His own life 
and honor were, he said, endangered by the manner in which this inconvenient witness re- 
peatedly thrust himself back into Ayrshire, and nothing could secure his safety but taking the lad's 
life, in which action he requested James Bannatyne's assistance. Bannatyne felt some compunc- 
tion, and remonstrated against the cruel expedient, saying, it would be better to transport Dal- 
rymple to Ireland, and take precautions against his return. While old Auchindrane seemed dis- 
posed to listen to this proposal, his son concluded that the time was come for accomplishing the 
purpose of their meeting, and without waiting the termination of his father's conference with 
Bannatyne, he rushed suddenly on Dalrymple, beat him to the ground, and, kneeling down on 
him, with his father's assistance accomplished the crime by strangling the unhappy object of their 
fear and jealousy. Bannatyne, the witness, and partly the accomplice, of the murder, assisted 
them in their attempt to make a hole in the sand, with a spade which they had brought on pur- 
pose, in order to conceal the dead body. But as the tide was coming in, the hole which they 
made filled with water before they could get the body buried, and the ground seemed to their 
terrified consciences to refuse to be accessary to concealing their crime. Despairing of hiding 
the corpse in the manner they proposed, the murderers carried it out into the sea as deep as 
they dared wade, and there abandoned it to the billows, trusting that a wind, which was blowing 
off the shore, would drive these remains of their crime out to sea, where they would never more 
be heard of. But the sea, as well as the land, seemed unwilling to conceal their cruelty. After 
floating for some hours, or days, the dead body was, by the wind and tide, again driven on shore, 
uear the very spot where the murder had been committed. 

This attracted general attention, and when the corpse was known to be that of the same 
William Dalrymple whom Auchindrane had so often spirited out of the country, or concealed 
when he was in it, a strong and general suspicion arose, that this young person had met with foul 
play from the bold bad man who had shown himself so much interested in his absence. It was 
always said or supposed, that the dead body had bled at the approach of a grandchild of Mure 
of Auchindrane. a girl who, from curiosity, had come to look at a sight which others crowded to 
see. The bleeding of the murdered corpse at the touch of the murderer, was a thing at that time 
so much believed, that it was admitted as a proof of guilt ; but I know no case, save that of 
Auchindrane, in which the phenomenon was supposed to be extended to the apiiroach of the 
innocent kindred ; nor do I think that the fact itself, though mentioned by ancient lawyers, was 
ever admitted to proof in the proceedings against Auchindrane. 

It is certain, however, that Auchindrane found himself so much the object of suspicion from 
this new crime, that he resolved to fly from justice, and suffer himself to be declared a rebel and 
outlaw rather than face a trial. But his conduct in preparing to cover his flight with another 




^ 



Jl 




492 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



motive than the real one. is a curious picture of the men aiicl manners of the times. He knew 
well that if he were to shun his trial for the murder of Dalrymjile, the whole country would con 
sider him as a man guilty of a mean and disjrraceful crime in putting to death an obscure lad, 
against whom he had no personal quarrel. He knew, besides, that his powerful friends, who 
would have interceded for him had his offence been merely burning a house, or kilhng a neigh- 
bor, would not plead for or stand by him in so pitiful a concern as the slaughter of this wretched 
wanderer. 

Accordingly, Mure sought to provide himself with some ostensible cause for avoiding law, 
with which the feelings of his kindred and friends might sympathize ; and none occurred to him 
so natural as an assault upon some friend and adherent of the Earl of Cassilis. Should he kill 
such a one, it would be indeed an unlawful action, but so far from being infamous, would be 
accounted the natural consequence of the avowed quarrel between the families. With this pur- 
pose, Mure, with the assistance of a relative, of whom he seems always to have had some ready 
to execute his worst purposes, beset Hugh Kennedy of Garriehorne, a follower of the Earl's, 
agamst whom they had especial ill-will, fired their pistols at him, and used other means to put 
him to death. But Garriehorne, a stout-liearted man, and well armed, defended himself in a 
very different manner from the unfortunate Knight of Cullayne, and beat off the assailants, 
wounding young Auchindrane in the right hand, so that he well-nigh lost the use of it. 

But though Auchindrane's purpose did not entirely succeed, he availed himself of it to circu- 
late a report, that if he could obtain a pardon for firing upon a feudal enemy with pistols, 
weapons declared unlawful by Act of Parliament, he would willingly stand his trial for the death 
of Dalrymple, respecting which he protested his total innocence. The King, however, was 
decidedly of opinion that the Mures, both father and son, were alike guilty of both crimes, and 
used intercession with the Earl of Abercorn, as a person of power in those western counties, as 
well as in Ireland, to arrest and transmit them prisoners to Edinburgh. In consequence of the 
Earl's exertions, old Auchindrane was made prisoner, and lodged in the tolbooth of Edinburgh. 
Young Auchindrane no sooner heard that his father was m custody, than he became as 
apprehensive of Bannatyne (the accomplice of Dalrymple's murder) telling tales, as ever his 
father had been of Dalrymple. He therefore hastened to him, and prevailed on him to pass 
over for a while to the neighboring coast of Ireland, finding him money and means to accom- 
plish the voyage, and engaging in the mean time to take care of his affairs in Scotland. Secure, 
as they thought, in this precaution, old Aucliindrane persisted in his innocence, and his son 
found security to stand his trial. Botli appeared with the same confidence at the day appointed, 
and braved tlie public justice, hoping to be put to a formal trial, in which Auchindrane reckoned 
upon an acquittal for want of the evidence which he had removed. The trial was, however, 
postponed, and Mure the elder was dismissed, under high security to return when called for. 

But King James, being convinced of tlie guilt of the accused, ordered young Auchindrane, 
instead of being sent to trial, to be examined under the foice of torture, in order to compel him 
to tell whatever he knew of the things charged against him. He was accordingly severely 
tortured ; but the result only served to show tliat such examinations are as useless as they are 
cruel. A man of weak resolution, or of a nervous habit, would probably have assented to any 
confession, however false, rather than have endured the extremity of fear and pain to which 
Mure was subjected. But young Auchindrane, a strong and determined ruffian, endured the 
torture with the utmost firmness, and by the constant audacity with which, in spite of the intoler- 
able pain, he continued to assert his innocence, he spread so favorable an opinion of his case, 
that the detaining him in prison, instead of bringing him to open trial, was censured as severe 
and oppressive. James, however, remained firmly persuaded of his guilt, and by an exertion of 
authority quite inconsisleat with our present laws, commanded young Auchindrane to be still 
detained in close custody till further light could be thrown on these dark proceedings. He was 
detained accordingly by tlie King's express personal command, and against the opinion even of 
his privy councillors. This exertion of authority was much murmured against. 

In the mean while, old Auchindrane, being, as we have seen, at liberty on pledges, skulked about 
in the west, feeling how little security he had gained by Dalrymple's murder, and that he had 
placed himself by that crime in the power of Bannatyne, whose evidence concerning the death of 
Dalrymple could not be less fatal than what Dalrymple might have told concerning Auchindrane's 
accession to the conspiracy against Sir Thomas Kennedy of Cullayne. But though theevent 
had shown the error of his wicked policy, Auchindrane could think of no better mode in this case 
than that which had failed in relation to Dalrymple. When any man's life became inconsistent 
with his own safety, no idea seems to have occurred to this inveterate ruffian, save to murder the 
person by whom he might himself be in any way endangered. He therefore attempted the life ot 
James Bannatyne by more agents than one. Nay, he had nearly ripened a plan by which one 
Pennvcuke was to be employed to slay Bannatyne, while, after the deed was done, it was devised 
that ISIure of Auchnull, a connection of Bannatyne, should be instigated to slay Peiinycuke ; and 
thus close up tlie train of murders by one, wliicli, flowing in the ordinary course of deadly feud, 
should have nothing in it so particular as to attract much attention. 

But the justice of Heaven would bear this complicated train of iniquity no longer. Bannatyne, 







A UCHTNDRA NE. 



493 



knowing with what sort of men he had to deal, Icept on his guard, and by his caution, discon- 
certed more than one attempt to take his life, while another miscarried by the remorse of Penny- 
cuke, the agent whom Mure employed. At length Bannatyne, tiring of this state of insecurity, 
and in despair of escaping such repeated plots, and also feeling remorse for the crime to which he 
had been accessary, resolved rather to submit himself to the severity of the law, than remain the 
object of the principal criminal's practices. He surrendered himself to the Earl of Abercorn, and 
was transported to Edinburgh, where he confessed before the King and council all the particulars 
of the murder of Dah-ymple, and the attempt to hide his body by committing it to the sea. 

When Bannatyne was confronted with the tvo Mures before the P. ivy Council, they denied 
with vehemence every part of the evidence he had given, and affirmed that the witness had been 
bribed to destroy them by a false tale. Bannatyne's behavior seemed sincere and simple, that 
if Auchindrane more resolute and crafty. The wretched accomplice fell upon his knees, invok- 
ing God to witness that all the land in Scotland could not have bribed him to bring a false accu- 
sation against a master whom he had served, loved, and followed in so many dangers, and calling 
upon Auchindrane to honor God by confessing the crime he had committed. Mure the elder, 
on the other hand, boldly replied, that he hoped God would not so far forsake him as to permit 
him to confess a crime of which he was innocent, and exhorted Bannatyne in his turn to confess 
the practices by which he had been induced to devise such falsehood against him. 

The two Mures, father and son, were therefore put upon their solemn trial along with Banna- 
tyne, in 1611, and, after a great deal of evidence had been brought in support of Bannatyne's 
confession, all these were found guilty. The elder Auchindrane was convicted of counselling 
and directing the rnurder of Sir Thomas Kennedy of Cullayne, and also of the actual murder of 
the lad Dalrymple. Bannatyne and the young Mure were found guilty of the latter crime, and all 
three were sentenced to be beheaded. Bannatyne, however, the accomplice, received the King's 
pardon, in consequence of his voluntary surrender and confession. The two Mures were both 
executed. The younger was affected by the remonstrances of the clergy who attended him, and 
he confessed the guilt of which he was accused. The father, also, was at length brought to avow 
the fact, but in other respects died as impenitent as he had lived ; — and so ended this dark and 
extraordinary tragedy. 

The Lord Advocate of the day. Sir Thcmas Hamilton, afterwards successively Earl of Melrose 
and of Haddington, seems to have busied himself much in drawing up a statement of this foul 
transaction, for the purpose of vindicating to the people of Scotland the severe course of justice 
observed by King James VI. He assumes the task in a high tone of prerogative law, and on the 
whole, seems at a loss whether to attribute to Providence, or to his most sacred Majesty, the 
greatest share in bringing to light these mysterious villanies, but rather inclines to the latter 
opinion. There is, I believe, no printed copy of the intended tract, which seems never to have 
been published ; but the curious will be enabled to judge of it, as it appears in the w&yA fasciculus 
of Mr. Robert Pitcairn's very interesting publications fiom the Scottish Criminal Record. 

The family of Auchindrane did not become extinct on the death of the two homicides. The 
last decendant existed in the eighteenth century, a poor and distressed man. The following 
unnecdote shows that he had a strong feeling of his situation. 

There was in front of the old castle a huge ash-tree, called the Duie-tree {monr7ting-tree) of 
Auchindrane, probably because it was the place where the baron executed the criminals who fell 
under his jurisdiction. It is described as having been the finest tree of the neighborhood. This 
last representative of the family of Auchindrane had the misfortune to be arrested for payment 
of a small debt ; and, unable to discharge it, was preparing to accompany the messenger (bailiff) 
to the jail of Ayr. The servant of the law had compassion for his prisoner, and offered to accept 
of this remarkable tree as of value adequate to the discharge of the debc, " What," said the 
debtor—'' sell the Dule-tree of Auchindrane. I will sooner die in the worst dungeon of your 
prison. In this luckless character the line of Auchindrane ended. The family, blackened with 
the crimes of its predecessors, became extinct, and the estate passed into other hands. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

John Mure of Auchindrane, an Ayrshire Baron. He has been a follower of the Regent, 
Earl of Morton, during the Civil Wars, and hides an oppressive, ferocious, and unscrupulous 
disposition, under some pretences to strictness of life and doctrine, which, however never in- 
fluence his. conduct. He is in danger from the law, owing to his having been formerly active 
in the assassination of the Earl of Cassilis. 

Philip Mure, his Son, a wild, debauched profligate, professing and practicing a contempt for 
his father's hypocrisy, while he is as fierce and licentious as Auchindrane himself. 

GiFFORD, their Relation, a Courtier. 







494 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



QuENTiN Blane, a Youth, educated for a clergyman, but sent by Auchindrane to serve" 
in a Band of Auxiliaries in the wars of the Netherlands, and lately employed as Clerk 
or Comptroller to the Regiment — disbanded, however, and on his return to his native 
Country. He is of a mild, gentlt, and rather feeble character, liable to be influenced 
by any person of stronger mind who will take the trouble to direct him. He is some- 
what of a nervous temperament, vaiying from sadness to gaiety, according to the im- 
pulse of the moment ; an amiable hypochondriac. 

HiLDEBRAND, a stout old EngUshmaji, who, by feats of courage, has raised himself to 
the rank of Sergeant-Major (then of greater consequence than at present). He, too, 
has been disbanded, but cannot bring himself to believe that he has lost his command 
over his Regiment. 

Rf^f^f,"^^ 1 Privates dismissed from the same Regiment in which Quentin and 
T„;r; ' ' ^ Hi:.debrand had served. These are mutinous, and are much disposed 

JENKINS, ' 

And Others. 



to remember former quarrels with their late officers. 



Neil MacLellan, Keeper of Auchindrane Forest and Game. _ 

Earl of Dunbar, commanding an Army as Lieutenant of James I., for execution of 
Justice on Offenders. 

Guards, Attendants, drc, drc. 

Marion, Wife of Neil MacLellan. 
Isabel, their Daughter, a Girl of six years old- 
Other Children and Peasant Women. 



AUCHINDRANE; 



THE AYRSHIRE TRAGEDY. 



ACT. I.— Scene I. 

A rocky Bay on the Coast of Carrick, in 
Ayrshire, not far from the Point of 
Titrnberry. The sea cotnes in upon a 
bold rocky Shore. The remains of a 
small half-ruined Tower are seen on the 
right hand, overhanging the sea. There 
is a Vessel at a distance in the offing. A 
Boat at the bottom of the Stage lands 
eight or ten persons, dressed like dis- 
banded, and in one or two cases like dis- 
abled, Soldiers. They come straggling 
forward with their knapsacks and bun- 
dles. HiLDEBRAND, the Sergeant be- 
longing to the party, a stout elderly man, 
stands by the boat, as if steperintetidittg 
the disembarkatio7t, Quentin remains 
apart. 

Abraham. Farewell the flats of Hol- 
land, and right welcome 

The cliffs of Scotland ! Fare thee well, 
black beer 

And Schiedam gin ! and welcome two- 
penny 



Oatcakes, and usquebaugh 1 

Williams (w//o wants an arm). Fare- 
well the gallant tield, and " Forward, 

oikemen ! " 
For the bridge-end, the suburb, and the 

lane — 
And, " Bless your honor, noble gentb- 

man. 
Remember a poor soldier ! " 

Abr. My tongue shall never need to 

smooth itself 
To such poor sounds, while it can boldly say, 
" Stand and deliver ! " 

WiL, Hush ! the sergeant hears you. 
Abr. And let him hear; he makes a 

bustle yonder. 
And dreams of his authority, forgetting 
We are disbanded men, o'er whom his 

halberd 
Has not such influence as the beadle's 

baton. 
We are no soldiers now, but every one 
The lord of his own person. 

WiL. A wretched lordship — and our 

freedom suclt 




c 1__5 



^If 




Farewell the flats of Holland, and right welcome 
The cliffs of Scotland ! " — Page 494. 







A UCHINDRANE. 



495 



As that of the old cart-horse, when the 

owner 
Turns him upon the common. I for one 
Will still continue to respect the sergeant, 
And the comptroller, too, — while the cash 

lasts. 
Abr. I scorn them both. I am too 

stout a Scotsman 
To bear a Southron's rule an instant longer 
Than discipline obliges ; and for Quentin, 

the comptroller, " 

We have no regiment now ; or, if we 

had, 
Quentin's no longer clerk to it. 

WiL. For shame ! for shame !— What, 

shall old comrades jar thus, 
And on the verge of parting, and for- 
ever ? — 
Nay, keep thy temper, Abraham, though a 

bad one. — 
Good Master Quentin, let thy song last 

night 
Give us once more our welcome to old 

Scotland. 
Abr. Ay, they sing light whose task is 

telling money, 
When dollars clink for chorus. 

Que. I've done with counting silver, 

honest Abraham, 
As thou, I fear, with pouching thy small 

share on't. 
But lend your voices, lads, and I will sing 
As blithely yet as if a town were won ; 
As if upon a field of battle gain'd, 
Our banners waved victorious. — {He sings, 

and the rest bear chorus. ) 

SONG. 

Hither we come, 

Once slaves to the drum, 
But no longer we list to its rattle ; 

Adieu to the wars. 

With their slashes and scars, 
The march, and the storm, and the battle. 

There are some of us maim'd, 

And some that are lamed, 
And some of old aches are complaining ; 

But we'll take up the tools, 
_ Which we flung by like fools, 
'Gainst Don Spaniard to go »campaign- 

ing. 

Dick Hawthorn doth vov/ 
To return to the plough. 
Jack Steele to his anvil and hammer; | 



The weaver shall find room 
At the wight-wapping loom, 
And your clerk shall teach writing and 
grammar. 

Abr. And this is all that thou canst doj 
gay Quentin .'' 

To swagger o'er a herd of parish brats, 

Cut cheese or dibble onions with thy 
poniard. 

And turn the cheath into a ferula ? 

Que. I am the prodigal in holy writ ; 

I cannot work— to beg 1 am ashamed. 

Besides, good mates, I care not who may 
know it, 

I'm e'en as fairly tir:d of this same fighting, 

As the poor cur that's worried in the 
shambles 

By all the mastiff dogs of all the butchers ; 

Wherefore, farewell sword, poniard, petra» 
nel, 

And welcome poverty, and peaceful labor. 
Abr, Clerk Quentin, if of fighting thou 
art tired. 

By my good word, thou'rt quickly satisfied. 

For thou'st seen but little on't. 

WiL. Thou dost belie him — I have seen 

Bravely enough for one in his condition. 
Abr. Wiiat he? that counter-casting, 
smock-faced boy ? 

What was he but the colonel's scribbling 
drudge. 

With men of straw to stuff the regiment 
roll ; 

With cipherings unjust to cheat his com 
rades. 

And cloak false musters for our noble cap- 
tain ? 

He bid farewell to sword and petronel ! 

He should have said, farewell my pen and 
standish. 

These, with the rosin used to hide erasures 

Were the best friends he left in camp 
behmd him, 
Que. The sword you scoff at is not far, 
but scorns 

The threats of an immanner'd mutineer. 
Ser. (interposes) We'll have no brawl- 
ing — Shall it e'er be said, 

That being comrades six long years to- 
gether, 

While gulpmg down the frowsy fogs of 
Holland, 

We tilted at each other's throats so soon 

As the first draught of native air refresh'd 
them? 



^ 





496 



SCOTTS POETICAL WORKS. 



No ! by Sain'' Dunstan, I forbid the combat. 

You all, methinks, do know this trusty hal- 
berd ; 

For I opine, that every back amongst you 

Hath felt the weight of the tough ashen 
staff, 

Endlong or overthwart. Who is it wishes 

A remembrancer now ? {Raises his hal- 
berd) 
Abr. Comrades, have you ears 

To hear the old man bully? — eyes to see 

His staff rear'd o'er your heads, as o'er the 
hounds 

The huntsman cracks his whip ? 

WiL. Well said ! — stout Abraham has the 
right on"t. — 

1 tell thee, sergeant, we do reverence thee, 

And pardon the rash humors thou hast 
caught, 

Like wiser men, from thy authority. 

'Tis ended, howsoe'er, and we'll not suffer 

A word of sergeantry, or halberd-staff. 

Nor the most petty threat of discipline. 

If thou wilt lay aside thy pride of office, 

And drop thy wont of swaggering and com- 
manding, 

Thou art our comrade still for good or evil. 

Else take thy course apart, or with the clerk 
there — 

.A sergeant thou, and he being all thy regi- 
ment. 
Ser. Is't come to this, false knaves ? And 
think you not, 

That if you bear a name o'er other soldiers, 

It was because you follovj'd to the charge 

One that had zeal and skill enough to lead 
you 

Where fame was won by danger .'■ 

WiL. We grant thy skill in leading, 
noble sergeant , 

Witness some empty boots and sleeves 

; amongst us. 

Which else had still been tenanted with 
limbs 

In the full quantity ; and for the argu- 
ments 

With which you used to back our resolu- 
tion. 

Our shoulders do record them. At a word 

Will you conform, or must we part our 
company .? 
Ser. Confoim to you ? Base dogs ! I 
would not lead you 

A bolt-flight farther to be made a general. 

Mean mutineers ' when yoi, swill'd ofl the 
dregs 



Of my poor sea-stores, it was, " Noble Se- 

geant ! — 
Heaven bless old Hildebrand ! — we'll follow 

him, 
At least, until we safely see him lodged 
Within the merry bounds of his own Eng- 
land 1 " 
WiL. Ay, truly, sir ; but, mark, the ale 
was mighty, 
And the Geneva potent. Such stout liquor 
Makes violent protestations. Skink it 

round. 
If you have any left, to the same tune, 
And we may find a chorus for it still. 

Abr. We lose our time. — Tell us at once, 
old man, 
It thou wilt march with us, or stay with 
Ouentin ? 
Ser. Out, mutineers! Dishonor dog 

your heels ! 
Abr. Wilful will have his way- Adieu, 
stout Hildebrand 1 

\The Soldiers go off lattghing, and 
taking leave, wHh mockery, of 
the Sergeant and Quentin, 
ivho remain on the Stage. 
Ser. {after a pause). Fly you not with 
the rest ! — fail you to follow 
Yon goodly fellowship and fair example? 
Con.e, take your wild-goose flight I know 

you Scots, 
Like vour own sea-fowl, seek your course 
together. 
Que Faith, a poor heron I, who wing 
my flight 
Jn loneliness, or with a single partner ; 
And right it is that I should seek for soli- 
tude, 
Bringing but evil luck on tliem I herd with. 
Ser. Thou'rt thankless. Had we landed 
on the coast. 
Where our cour.se bore us, thou wert fai 

from home , 
But the fierce wind that drove us round the 

i.shmd. 
Barring each port and inlet that we aini'd 

at, 
Hath watted thee to harbor ; for 1 judge 
This is thy native land we disembark on. 
Que, True, worthy friend Each rock, 
each stream I look on. 
Each bosky wood, and every frowning 

tower, 
.Awakens some young dream of infancy. 
Yet such is my hard hap, I might more 
safely 





1 




x^r^ 


C 1 


c 1 •) 1 — v 




■ 1 - rr> 




(. •> b 


-^ /•\ 






X, 


' 


ir ilr 








AUCHINDKANE. 497 




Have jook'd on Indian cliffs, or Afric's 


As objects not unworthy their protection, 




desert, 


Whose progress is some honor to their 






[^ Tliiin on my native sliores. I'm like a babe 


patron — 




*" 


Doom'd to draw poison from my nurse's 


A cure was spoken of, which I might ^ ^ 






bosom. 


serve, 






Ser. Thou dream'st young man. Un- 


Mv manners, doctrine, and acquirements 






real terrors haunt, 


fitting. 






As I have noted, giddy brains like thine — 


Ser. Hitherto thy luck 






Flighty, poetic, and imaginative— 


Was of the best, good friend. Few lords 






To whom a minstrel whim gives idle rap- 


had cared 






ture, 


If thou couldst read thy grammar or thy 






And, when it fades, fantastic misery. 


psalter : 






Que. But mine is not fantastic. I can 


Thou hadst been valued couldst thou scour 






" tell thee, 


a harness. 






Since I have known thee still my faithful 


And dress a steed distinctly. 






friend, 


Que. My old master 






In part at least the dangerous plight I stand 


Held different doctrine, at least it seem'd 






m. 
Ser. And I will hear thee willingly, the 


so — 
But he was mix'd in many a deadly feud — 






rather, 


And here my tale grows mystic. I became, 






That I would let these vagabonds march 


Unwitting and unwilling, the depositary 






on, 


Of a dread secret, and the knowledge on't 






Nor jom their troop again. Besides, good 


Has wreck'd my peace forever. It be- 






sooth, 


came 






I'm wearied with the toil of yesterday. 


My patron's will, that I, as one who knew 






And revel of last night. — And I may aid 


More than I should, must leave the realm of 






thee ; 


Scotland, 






Yes, I may aid thee, comrade, and per- 


And live or die within a distant land. 






chance 


Ser. Ah ! thou hast done a fault in some 






Thou may'st advantage me. 


wild raid, 






Que. May it prove well for both!— But 


As you wild Scotsmen call them. 






note, my friend, 


Que. Comrade, nay; 






1 can but intimate my mystic story. 


Mine was a peaceful part, and happ'd by 






Some of it lies so secret, — even the wincTs 


chance. 






That whistle round us must not know the 


I must not tell you more. Enough, my 






whole^ 


presence 






An oath ! — an oath ! 


Brought danger to my benefactor's house. 






Ser. That must be kept, of course. 


Tower after tower conceal'd me, willing 






I ask but that which thou may'st freely 


still 






tell. 


To hide my ill-omen'd face with owls and 






Que. I was an orphan boy, and first saw 


ravens. 






light 


And let my patron's safety be the purchase 






Not far from where we stand — my lineage 


Of my severe and desolate captivity. 






low. 


So thought I, when dark Arran, with its 






But lionest in its poverty. A lord. 


walls 






The master of tlie soil for many a mile. 


Of native rock, enclosed me. There I 






Dreaded and powerful, took a kindly 


lurk'd. 






charge 


A peaceful stranger amid armed clans. 






For my advance in letters, and the qualities 


Without a friend to love or to defend me. 






Of the poor orphan lad drew some ap- 


Where all beside were link'd by close alli- 






plause. 


ances. 






. The knight was proud of me, and, in his 


.At length I made my option to take service • 




r 


r> halls. 


In that same legion of auxiliaries f\ r 






1 had such kind of welcome as the great 


In which we lately served the Belgian. 






Give to the humble, whom they love to 


Our leader, stout Montgomery, hath been 






point to 

32 


kind 




\ 






1 

A", 




^ - 


'H '■' r . ^ 1 


^ ^ 


^ 


<H — ^ • ' « 1 


—i,\-^ 







SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Through full six years of warfare, and 

assign'd me 
More peaceful tasks than the rough front 

of war, 
For which my education little suited me. 
Ser. Ay, therein was Montgomery kind 

indeed ; 
Nay, kinder than you think, my simple 

Quentin. 
The letters which you brought to the 

Montgomery, 
Pointed to thrust thee on some desperate 

service, 
Which should most likely end thee. 

Que, Bore I such letters? — Surely, 

comrade, no. 
Full deeply was the writer bound to aid me. 
Perchance he only meant to prove my 

mettle ; 
And it was but a trick of my bad fortune 
That gave his letters ill interpretation. 
Ser. Ay, but thy better angel wrought 

for good, 
Whatever ill thy evil fate design'd thee. 
Montgomery pitied thee, and changed thy 

service 
In the rough field for labor in the tent. 
More fit for thy green years and peaceful 

habits. 
Que. Even there his well-meant kind- 
ness injured me. 
My comrades hated, imdervalued me. 
And whatsoe'er of service I could do them, 
They guerdon'd with ingratitude and 

envy — 
Such my strange doom, that if I serve a 

man 
At deepest risk, he is my foe forever ! 

Ser. Hast thou worse fate than others 

if it were so ? 
Worse even than me, thy friend, thine 

oflficer, — 
Whom yon ungrateful slaves have pitch'd 

ashore, 
As wild waves heap the sea-weed on the 

beach. 
And left him here, as if he had the pest 
Or leprosy, and death were in his company ? 
Que. They think at least you have the 

worst of plagues, 
The worst of leprosies, — they think you 

poor. 
Ser. They think like lying villains then : 

— I'm rich, 
And they too might have felt it. I've a 

thought — 



But stay — what plans your wisdom foT 
yourself ? 
Que. My thoughts are well-nigh des- 
perate. But I purpose 

Return to my stern patron — there to tell 
him 

That wars, and winds, and waves, have 
cross'd his pleasure. 

And cast me on the shore from whence he 
banish'd me 

Then let him do his will, and destine for 
me 

A dungeon or a grave. 
Ser. Now, by the rood, thou art a 
simple fool 1 

I can do better for thee. Mark me, 
Quentin. 

I took my license from the noble regiment, 

Partly that I was worn with age and war- 
fare. 

Partly that an estate of yeomanry. 

Of no great purchase, but enough to live 
on, 

Has call'd me owner since a kinsman's 
death. 

It lies in merry Yorkshire, where the wealth 

Of fold and furrow, propc to Old England, 

Stretches by streams which walk no slug- 
gish pace, 

But dance as light as yours. Now, good 
friend Quentin, 

This copyhold can keep two quiet inmates, 

And I am childless. Wilt thou be my son ? 
Que. Nay, you can only jest, my 
worthy friend ! 

What claim have I to be a burden to you ? 
Ser. The claim of him that wants, and 
is in danger, 

On him that has, and can afford protection : 

Thou wouldst not fear a foeman in my 
cottage. 

Where a stout mastiff slumber'd on the 
hearth, 

And this good halberd hung above the 
chimney ? 

But come — I have it — thou shalt earn thy 
bread 

Duly, and honorably, and usefiillv. 

Our village schoolmaster hath left the 
parish. 

Forsook the ancient school-house with its 
yew-trees. 

That hirk'd beside a church two centuries 
older, — 

So long devotion took the lead of knowl- 
edge : 



^ 




AUCHINDRANE. 



499 



And since his little flock are shepherdless, 
'Tis thou shalt be promoted in his room ; 
And rather than thou wantest scholars, 

man, 
Myself will enter pupil. Better late, 
Our proverb says, than never to do well. 
And look you, on the holydays I'd tell, 
To all the wondering boors and gaping 

children. 
Strange tales of what the regiment did in 

Flanders, 
And thou shouldst say Amen, and be my 

warrant 
That I speak truth to them. 

Que. Would 1 might take thy offer! 

But, alas ! 
Thou art the hermit who compell'd a pil- 
grim. 
In name of heaven and heavenly charity, 
To share his roof and meal, but found too 

late 
That he had drawn a curse on him and 

his. 
By sheltering a wretch foredoom'd of 

heaven ! 
Ser. Thou talk'st in riddles to me. 
Que. If I do, 

'Tis that I am a riddle to myself. 
Thou know'st I am by nature born a friend 
To glee and merriment, can make wild 

verses ; 
The jest or laugh has never stopp'd with 

me, 
When once 'twas set a rolling. 

Ser. I have known thee 

A blithe companion still, and wonder now 
Thou shouldst become thus crest-fallen. 
Que. Does the lark sing her descant 

when the falcon 
Scales the blue vault with bolder wing than 

hers, 
.^nd meditates a stoop? The mirth thou'st 

noted 
Was all deception, fraud — Hated enough 
For other causes, I did veil my feelings 
Beneath the mask of mirth, — laugh'd, 

sung, and caroll'd, 
To gain some interest in my comrades' 

bosoms, 
Although mine own was bursting. 

Ser. Thou'rt a hypocrite 

Of a new order. 

Que. But harmless as the innoxious 

snake, 
Wliich bears the adder's form, lurks in his 

haunts. 



Yet neither hath his fang-teeth nor his 
poison. 

Look you, kind Hildebrand, I would seem 
merry. 

Lest other men should, tiring of my sad- 
ness, 

Expel me from them, as the hunted wether 

Is driven from the flock 
Ser Faith, thou hast borne it bravely 
out. 

Had I been ask'd to name the merriest 
fellow 

Of all our muster-roll— that man wert 
thou. 
Que, See'st thou, my friend, yon brook 
dance down the valley, 

And sing blithe carols over broken rock 

And tiny waterfall, kissing each shrub 

And each gay flower it nurses in its 
passage, — 

Where, thinkst thou, is its source, the 
bonny brook ? — 

It flows from forth a cavern, black and 
gloomy. 

Sullen and sunless, like this heart of mine. 

Which others see in a false glare of gayety. 

Which I have laid before you in its sad- 
ness. 
Ser. If such wild fancies dog thee, 
wherefore leave 

The trade where thou wert safe 'midst 
others' dangers. 

And venture to thy native land, where fate 

Lies on the watch for thee 1 Had old 
Montgomery 

Been with the regiment, thou hadst had 
no conge. 
Que. No, 'tis most likely — But I had a 
hope, 

A poor vain hope, that I might live 
obscurely 

In some far corner of my native Scotland, 

Which, of all others, splinter'd into dis- 
tricts, 

Differing in manners, families, even lan- 
guage, 

Seem'd a safe refige for the humble 

wretch 
Whose highest hope was to remain un- 
heard of. 
But fate has baffled me — the winds and 

waves, 
With force resistless, have impell'd me 

hither — 
Have driven me to the clime most dan- 
gerous to me : 




SCOTT'S POETICAL IVOJiA'S. 



And I obey the call, like the hurt deer, 
Which seeks instinctively his native iair. 
Though his heart tells him it is but to die 

there. 
Ser. 'Tis false, by Heaven, young man! 

This same despair, 
Though showing resignation in its banner, 
Is but a kind of covert cowardice. 
Wise men have said, that though our stars 

incline, 
They cannot force us — Wisdom is the 

pilot. 
And if he cannot cross, he may evade them. 
You lend an ear to idle auguries. 
The fruits of our last revels— still most 

sad 
Under the gloom that follows boisterous 

mirth. 
As earth looks blackest after brilliant sun- 
shine. 
Que. No, by my honest word. I join'd 

»-,he revel. 
And aided it with laugh and song and 

shout. 
But my heart revell'd not ; and, when the 

mirth 
Was at the loudest, on yon galliot's prow 
I stood unmark'd, and gazed upon the 

land. 
My native land — each cape and cliff I 

knew. 
" Behold me now," I said, " your destined 

victim ! '' 
So greets the sentenced criminal the head- 
man. 
Who slow approaches with nis lifted axe. 
"Hither I come," I said, "ye kindred 

hills. 
Whose darksome outline in a distant land 
Haunted my slumbers ; here I stand, thou 

ocean, 
Whose hoarse voice, murmuring in my 

dreams, required me ; 
See me now here, ye winds, whose plaintive 

wail. 
On yonder distant shores, appear'd to call 

me — 
Summon'd, behold me." And the winds and 

waves. 
And the deep echoes of the distant moun- 
tain. 
Made answer — " Come, and die ! " 

Ser. Fantastic all 1 Poor boy, thou art 

distracted 
With the vain terrors of some feudal 

tyrant. 



Whose frown hath been from infancy thy 

bugbear. 
Why seek his presence ? 

Que Wherefore does the moth 

Fly to the scorching taper ? — why the bird, 
Dazzled by lights at midnight, seek the 

net?— 
Why does the prey, which feels the fascina- 
tion 
Of the snake's glaring eye, drop in nis 

jaws .' 
Ser. Such wild examples but refute 

themselves. 
Let bird, let moth, let the coil'd adder's 

prey. 
Resist the fascination and be safe. 
Thou goest not near this Baron — if thou 

goest, 
I will go with thee. Known in manv a 

field, 
Which he in a whole life of petty feud 
Has never dream'd of, I will teach the 

knight 
To rule him in this matter — be thy warrant, 
That far from him, and from his petty lord- 
ship, 
You shall henceforth tread English land and 

never 
Thy presence shall alarm his conscience 

more. 
Que. 'Twere desperate risk for both. I 

will far rather 
Hastily guide thee through this dangerous 

province. 
And seek thy school, thy yew-trees, and thy 

churchyard ; — 
The last, perchance, will be the first I find. 

Ser. 1 would rather tace him. 
Like a bold Englishman that knows his 

right, 
And will stand by his friend. And yet 'tis 

folly-- 
Fancies like these are not to be resisted ; 
'Tis better to escape them. Many a pres 

age, 
Too rashly braved, becomes its own accom- 
plishment. 
Then let us go- -But whither ? My old head 
As little knows where it shall lie to-night 
As yonder mutineers that left their officer ; 
As reckless of his quarters as these billows, 
That leave the wither'd sea-weed on the 

beach. 
And care not where they pile it. 

Que. Think not for that, good friend 

We are in Scotland, 



A UCHINDRANE. 



SOI 



And if it is not varied from its wont, 

Each cot, that sends a curl of smol<e to 

lieaven, 
Will yield a stranger quarters for the night, 
imply because he needs them. 
Sek. But are there none witliin an easy 

walk 
Give lodgings here for hire ? for I have left 
Some of the Don's piastres, (though 1 kept 
The secret from yon gulls,) and I had 

rather 
Pay the fair reckoning I can well afford. 
And my host takes with pleasure, than I'd 

CLimber 
5ome poor man's roof with me and all my 

wants, 
And tax his charity beyond discretion. 
Que. .Some six miles hence there is a 

town and hostelry. 
But you are wayworn, and it is most likely 
Our comrades must have fill'd it 

Ser. Out upon them ! — 

Were there a friendly mastiff who would 

lend me 
Half of his supper, half of his poor kennel, 
1 would help Honesty to pick his bones, 
.^nd share his straw, far rather than I'd sup 
On jolly fare with these base varlets ! 

Que. We'll manage better ; for our Scot- 
tish dogs, 
Tho' stout and trusty, are but ill-instructed 
[n hospitable rights. — Here is a maiden, 
A little maid, will tell us of the country, 
And sorely it is changed since I left it, 
[f we should fail to find a harborage. 

Enter Isabel MacLellan, a girl of 
about six years old, bearing a ttiilk-pail 
on her head, she stops on seeing the 
Sergeant and Quentin. 

Que. There's something in her look that 
doth remind me — 
But 'tis not wonder I find recollections 

In all that here I look on. — Pretty maid 

Ser. You're slow, and hesitate. I will be 
spokesman. — 
Good even, my pretty maiden — canst thou 

tell us. 
Is there a Christian house would render 

strangers, 
For love or guerdon, a night's meal and 
lodging ? 
ISA. Full surely, sir ; we dwell in )'on old 
house 
Upon the cliff — they call it Chapeldonan. 

(Points to the building. ) 



Our house is large enough, and if our 

supper 
Chance to be scant, you shall have half of 

mine, 
For, as I think, sir, you have been a 

soldier. 
Up yonder lies our house; I'll trip before, 
And tell my mother .she has guests 

a-coming ; 
The path is somethmg steep, but you shall 

see 
I'll be there first. I must chain up the clogs 

too ; 
Nimrod and Bloodylass are cross to 

strangers, 
But gentle when you know them. 

\_Exit, and is seen partially ascend- 
ing to the Castle. 
Ser. You have spoke 

Your country folk aright, both for the 

dogs 
And for the people. We had luck to light 
On one too young for cunning and for 

selfishness. — 
He's in a reverie — a deep one sure. 
Since the gibe on his country wakes him 

not. — 
Bestir thee, Quentin ! 
Que. 'Twas a wondrous likeness ! 

Ser. Likeness! of whom! I'll warrant 

thee of one 
Whom thou hast loved and lost. Such 

fantasies 
Live long in brains like thine, which fashion 

visions 
Of woe and death when they are cross'd in 

love. 
As most men are or have been. 

Que. The guess has touch'd me, though 

it is but slightly, 
'Mongst other woes: I knew in former 

days, 
.A. maid that view'd me with some glance of 

favor ; 
But my fate carried me to other shores, 
And she has since been wedded. I did think 

on't 
But as a bubble burst, a rainbow vanish'd 
It adds no deeper shade to the dark gloom 
Which chills the springs of hope and life 

within me. 
Our guide hath got a trick of voice and 

feature 
Like to the maid I spoke of — that is all. 
Ser. She bounds before us like a game 

some doe. 








502 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Or rather as the rock-bred eaglet soars 
Up to her nest, as if she rose by will 
Without an effort. Now a Netherlander, 
One of our Frogland friends, viewing the 

scene. 
Would take his oath that tower, and rock, 

and maiden, 
Were forms too light and lofty to be real, 
And only some delusion of the fancy, 
Such as men dream at sunset. I myself 
Have kept the level ground so many 

years, 
I have well-nigh forgot the art to climb. 
Unless assisted by the younger arm. 

[ They go off as if to ascend to the 
Tower, the Sergeant leaning 

upon QUENTIN. 

Scene II. 

Scene changes to the Front of the Old Tc wer. 
Isabel comes forward with her Mother, 
— Marion speaking as they advance. 

Mar. I blame thee not, my child, for 

bidding wanderers 
Come share our food and shelter, if thy 

father 
Were here to welcome them ; but, Isabel, 
He waits upon his lord at Auchindrane, 
And comes not home to-night. 

IsA. What then, my mother ? 

The travellers do not ask to see my father ; 
Food, shelter, rest, is all the poor men 

want, 
And we can give them these without my 

father. 
Mar. Thou canst not understand, nor 

I explain, 
Why a lone female asks not visitants 
What time her husband's absent. — {Apart.) 

My poor child, 
And if thou'rt wedded to a jealous husband, 
Thou'lt know too soon the cause. 

ISA. {partly overhearing what her mother 

says) — 
Ay, but I know already — Jealousy 
Is when my father chides, and you sit 

weeping. 
Mar. Out, little spy! thy father never 

chides ; 
Or, if he does, 'tis when his wife deserves 

it.— 
But to our strangers ; they are old men, 

Isabel, 
That seek this shelter ? are they not ? 

ISA. One is old — 



Old as this tower of ours, and worn like 

that. 
Bearing deep marks of battles long since 
fought. 
Mar. Some remnant of the wars ; he's 
welcome, surely, 
Bringing no quality along with him 
Which can alarm suspicion. — Well, the 
other I* 
Isa. a young man, gentle-voiced and 
gentle-eyed, 
Who looks and speaks like one the world 

has frown'd on ; 
But smiles when you smile, seeniing that 

he feels 
Joy in your joy, though he himself is sad. 
Brown hair, and downcast looks. 

Mar. (alarmed). 'Tis but an idle 
thought — it cannot be ! 
[Listens.) I hear his accents — It is all too 

true — 
My terrors were prophetic ! — —I'll com- 
pose myself. 
And then accost him firmly. Thus it 
must be. 

\_She retires hastily into the Tower. 
— The voices of the Sergeant 
rtwa? QuENTiN are heard ascend- 
ing behind the Scejies. 
Que. One effort more — we stand upon 
the level. 
I've seen thee work thee up glacis and 

cavalier 
Steeper than this ascent, when cannon, 

culverine. 
Musket, and' hackbut, shower'd their shot 

upon thee. 
And form'd, with ceaseless blaze, a fiery 

garland 
Round the defences of the post you storm'd. 
YThey come on the stage, and at the 
same time MARION re-enters from 
the Tower. 
Ser. Truly thou speak'st. I am the 
tardier 
That I, in climbing hither, miss the fire, 
Which wont to tell me there was death in 

loitering. — 
Here stands, methinks, our hostess. 

[//c' goes forward to address Ma- 
rion. QuENTiN, struck on see- 
ing her, keeps back. 
Ser. Kind dame, yon little lass hath 
brought you strangers, 
Willing to be a trouble, not a charge to you. 
We are disbanded soldiers, but have means 




1 




^. ^ 


<• n 


.^ — 1, "[Ttx 


1 




i 1 


1 ? 






A UCHINDRA NE. 5 03 






(^mple enough to pay our journey home- 


Though I must ne'er partake them. 




ward 


Mar. But if it grieve you 






Mar. We keep no house of general 
entertainment, 


Que. NoI do not fear. The brightest 
gleams of hope 










But know our duty, sir, to locks like yours. 


That shine on me are such as are reflected 






Whiten'd and thinn'd by many a long cam- 


From those which siiine on others. 






paign. 
Ill chances that my husband should be 


\The Sergeant and Quentin 
etiter the Toner -with the little 






absent — 


Girl. 






{Aj>art) — Courage alone can make me 


]NL\R. (comes forTvard, and speaks in 






struggle through it — 


agitation) — 






For m your comrade, though he hath for- 


F-ven so ! the simple youth has miss'd my 






got me, 


meaning : 






I spy a friend whom I have known in 


I shame to make it plainer, or to say. 






schoo.'-days. 


In one brief word. Pass on. — Heaven guide 






And whom I think MacLellan well re- 


the bark. 






members. — 


For we are on the breakers ! 






{She goes up to Quenti.n'.) You see a 


\Exit into the Tower. 






woman's memory 








Is faithlullerthan yours: for Quentin Blanc 


ACT II.— Scene I. 






Hath not a grseting left for Marion Hark- 








ness. 


A Withdrawing Apartment in the Castle 






Que. ijvith effort). 1 seek, indeed, my 


of Auchtndrane. Ser-cants place a 






native land, good Marion, 


Table, with a Flask of Wine and 






But seek it like a stranger. — All is changed, 


Drinking-Ciifs. 






And thou thyself — 


Enter Mure of Auchindrane, with 
Albert Gifford, his Relation and 






M.\R. You left a giddy rnaiden, 






And find, on your return, a wife and 

mother. 
Thine old acquaintance, Quentin, is my 


Visitor. They place themselves by the 






Table after some complimentary cere- 
mony. At some distance is heard the 






mate — 
Stout Niel MacLellan, ranger to our lord, 


Tioise of revelling. 






The Knight of Auchindrane. He's absent 


AuCH. We're better placed for confiden- 






now, 


tial talk, 






But will rejoice to see his former comrade, 


Than in the hall fill'd with disbanded 






If, as I trust, you tarry his return. 


soldiers. 






{Apart.) Heaven grant he understand my 


And fools and fiddlers gather'd on tlie high- 






words by contraries ! 


way, — 






He must remember Niel and he were rivals ; 


The worthy guests whom Philip crowds my 






He must remember Niel and he were foes ; 


hall with, 






He must remember Niel is warm of temper. 


.And with them spends his evening. 






And think, instead of welcome, I would 


GiF. But think you not, my friend, that 






blithely 


your son Philip 






Bid him, God speed you. But he is as 


Should be participant of these our counsels, 






simple 


Being so deeply mingled in the danger — 






And void of guile as ever. 


Your house's only heir — your only son ? 






Que., Marion, I gladly rest within your 


AucH. Kind cousin Gifford, if thou 






cottage. 


lack'st good counsel 






And gladly wait return of Niel MacLellan, 


At race, at cockpit, or at gambling table. 






To clasp his hand, and wish him happiness. 


Or any freak by which men cheat them- 






Some rising feelings might perhaps prevent 


selves 






this— 


As well of life as of the means to live. 






, ^ But 'tis a peevish part to grudge our friends 


Call for assistance upon Philip Mure ; i.-\ 


r. 




Their share of fortune because we have 


But in all serious parley spare invoking liim. 






miss'd it : 


GiF. You speak too lightly of my cousin 






I can wish others joy and happiness, 


Philip ; 






i^ 


« 

^— t 5 


. "^ H 


JT 


S 

1 


vil - 


fT=l .* 


' . ks 


-. .y 




1 



504 



SCOTT'S FOE TIC A L WORKS. 



All name him brave in arms. 

AucH. A second Bevis ; 

But I, my youth bred up m graver fashions, 
Mourn o'er the mode of life m which he 

spends, 
Or rather dissipates, his time and substance. 
No vagabond escapes his search —The 

soldier 
Spurn'd from the service, henceforth to be 

ruffian 
Upon his own account, is Philip's comrade ; 
The fiddler, whose crack'd crowd has still 

three strings on't ; 
The balladeer, whose voice has still two 

notes left ; 
Whate'er is roguish, and whate'er is vile, 
Are welcome to the board of Auchindrane, 
And Philip will return them shout for shout. 
And pledge for jovial pledge, and song for 

song. 
Until the shame-faced sun peep at our 

windows. 
And ask, " What have we here?" 
GiF. You take such revel deeply ; — we 

are Scotsmen, 
Far known for rustic hospitality, 
That mind not birth or titles in our guests : 
The harper has his seat beside our hearth. 
The wanderer must find comfort at our 

board, 
His name unask'd, his pedigree unknown ; 
So did our ancestors, and so must we. 

AucH. All this is freely granted, worthy 

kinsman ; 
And prithee do not think me churl enough 
To count how many sit beneath my salt. 
I've wealth enough to fill my father's hall 
Each day at noon, and feed the guests who 

crowd it ; 
I am near mate with those whom men call 

Lord, 
Though a rude western knight. But mark 

me, cousin. 
Although 1 feed wayfaring vagabonds, 
I make them not ray comrades. Such as 1, 
Who have advanced the fortunes of my 

line. 
And swell'd a baron's turret to a palace, 
Have oft the curse awaiting on our thrift, 
To see, while yet we live, the things which 

must be 
At our decease — the downfall of our family. 
The loss of land and lordship, name and 

knighthood. 
The wreck of the fair fabric we have built, 
By a degenerate heir. Philip has that 



Of inborn meanness in him, that he loves 
not 

The company of betters nor of equals ; 

Never at ease, unless he bears the bell, 

And crows thfc loudest in the company. 

He's mesh'd, too, in the snares of every 
female 

Who deigns to cast a passing glance on 
him — 

Licentious, disrespectful, rash, and prof- 
ligate 
GiF. Come, my good coz, think we too 
have been young. 

And 1 will swear that in your father's life- 
time 

You have yourself been trapp'd by toys 
like these. 
AucH. A fool I niav have been — but 
not a madman ; 

1 never play'd the \.':.i among my fol- 
lowers. 

Pursuing this man's sister, that man's wife; 

And therefore never saw I man of mine, 

When summon'd to obey my best, grow 
restive. 

Talk of his honor, of his peace destroy'd. 

And, while obeying, mutter threats of 
vengeance. 

But now the humor of an idle )-outh, 

Disgusting trusted followers, sworn de- 
pendents, 

Plays football with his honor and my 
safety. 
GiF. Pm sorry to find discord in yout 
house, 

For I had hoped, while bringing you cold 
news. 

To find you arm'd in union 'gainst the 
danger. 
AuCH. What can man speak that I 
would shrink to hear. 

And where the danger I would deign to 
shun ? {He rises.) 

What should appal a man inured to perils, 

Like the bold climber on the crags of Ailsa? 

Winds whistle past him, billows rage be- 
low. 

The sea-fowl sweep around, with shriek 
and clang. 

One single slip, one unadvised pace. 

One qualm of giddiness — and peace be 
with him I 

But he whose grasp is sure, whose step 1= 
firm, 

Whose brain is constant — he makes one 
proud rock 



S- 




^ 



A UCHINDRANE. 



5f'5 



The means to scale another, till he stand 
Triuinphant on the peak. 

GiF. And so I trust 

Thou wilt surmount the danger now ap- 
proaching. 
Whicli scarcely can 1 frame my tongue to 

tell you, 
Though I rode here on purpose. 

AucH. Cousin, I think thy heart was 

never coward, 
And strange it seems thy tongue should 

take such semblance. 
I've Iieard of many a loud-mouth'd, noisy 

braggart. 
Whose hand gave feeble sanction to his 

tongue ; 
But thou art one v^fhose heart can think 

bold things, 
Whose hand can act them — but who 

shrinks to speak them ! 
GiF. And if I speak them not, 'tis that 

I shame 
To tell thee of the calumnies that load thee. 
Things loudly spoken at the city Cross — 
Things closely whisper'd in our Sovereign's 

ear — 
Things which the plumed lord and flat- 

capp'd citizen 
Do circulate amid their different ranks — 
Things false, no doubt ; but, falsehoods 

while I deem them, 
Still hononng thee, I shun the odious 

topic. 
AucH. Shun it not, cousin ; 'tis a friend's 

best office 
To bring the news we hear unwillingly. 
The sentinel, who tells the foe's approach. 
And wakes the sleeping camp, does but 

his duty : 
Be thou as held in telling me of danger, 
As I shall be in facing danger told of. 

GiF. I need not bid thee recollect the 

death-feud 
That raged so long betwixt thy house and 

Cassilis ; 
Ineed not bid thee recollect the league, 
When royal James himself stood mediator 
Between thee and Earl Gilbert. 

AuCH. Call you these news .i" — You 

rnigJit as well have told me 
That old King Coil is dead, and graved at 

Kylesfeid. 
I'll help thee out — King James com- 
manded us 
Henceforth to live in peace, made us clasp 

hands roo. j 



O, sir, when such an union hath been made, 
In heart and hand conjoining mortal foes. 
Under a monarch's royal mediation, 
The league is not forgotten. And with this 
What is there to be told .' The Kmg 

commanded — 
" Be friends." No doubt we were so — 

Who dares doubt it ? 
GiF. Vou speak but half the tale. 
AucH. By good Saint Trimon, but I'll 

tell the whole ! 
There is no terror in the tale for me — 
Go speak of ghosts to children ! - This 

Earl Gilbert 
(God sain him) loved Heaven's peace as 

well as 1 did. 
And we were wondrous friends whene'er 

we met 
At church or market, or in burrows town. 
Midst this, our good Lord Gilbert, Earl of 

Cassilis, 
Takes purpose he would journey forth to 

Edinburgh. 
The King was doling gifts of abbey-lands. 
Good things that thrifty house was wont to 

fiih for. 
Our mighty Earl forsakes his sea-wash'd 

castle. 
Passes our borders some four miles from 

hence ; 
And, holding it unwholesome to be fasters 
Long after sunrise, lo ! the Earl and train 
Dismount, to rest their nags and eat their 

breakfast. 
The mornmg rose, the small birds caroll'd 

sweetly — 
The corks were drawn, the pasty brooks 

incision — 
His lordship jests, his train are choked with 

laughter ; 
When, — wondrous change of cheer, and 

most unlook"d for. 
Strange epilogue to bottle and to baked 

meat ! — 
Flash' d from the greenwood half a score of 

carabines ; 
And the good Earl of Cassilis, in his 

breakfast. 
Had nooning, dinner, supper, all at once, 
Even in the morning that he closed his 

journey ; 
And the grim s«xton, for his chamberlain. 
Made him the bed which rests the head for- 
ever. 
GiF. Told with much spirit, cousin- 
some tliere are 





^ 



506 



SCOTT'S POETICAL IVOKKS. 



Would add, and in a tone resembling 

triumph, 
And would that with these long establish'd 

facts 
My tale began and ended ! 1 must tell you, 
That evil-deeming censures of the events, 
Both at the time and now, tiirow blame on 

thee — 
Time, place, and circumstance, they say, 

proclaim thee. 
Alike, tlie author of that morning's ambush. 
AucH. Ay, 'tis an old belief in Carrick 

here. 
Where natives do not always die in bed, 
That if a Kennedy shall not attain 
Methuselah's last span, a Mure has slain 

him ; 
Such is the general creed of all their clan. 
Thank Heaven, tliat they are bound to prove 

the charge 
They are so prompt in making. Tliey have 

clamor'd 
Enough of this before, to show their malice. 
But what said these coward pickthanks 

when I came 
Before the King, before the Justicers, 
Rebutting all their calumnies, and daring 

them 
To show that I knew aught of Cassilis' 

journey — 
Wliich way he meant to travel — where to 

halt- 
Without which knowledge I possess'd no 

means 
To dress an ambush for him ? Did I not 
Defy the assembled clan of Kennedys, 
To show, by proof direct or inferential, 
Wherefore they slander'd me with this foul 

charge ! 
My gauntlet rung before them in the court, 
And I did dare the best of them to lift it, 
And prove such charge a true one — Did I 

not ''. 
GiF. I saw your gauntlet lie before the 

Kennedys, 
Wlio look'd on it as men do on an adder, 
Longmg to crush, and yet afraid to grasp it. 
Not an eye sparkled — not a foot ad- 
vanced — 
No arm was stretch'd to lift the fatal svm- 

bol. 
AucH. Then, wherefore do the hildings 

murmur now ? 
Wish they to see again, how one bold 

Mure 
Can baffle and defy their assembled valor ? 



GiF. No; but they speak of evidence 

suppress'd. 
AucH. Suppress'd! — what evidence.'— 
by whom suppress'd ? 

What Will-o'-Wisp — what idiot of a wit- 
ness. 

Is he to whom they trace an empty voice. 

But cannot show his person .' 

GiF. They pretend, 

Witli the King's leave, to bring it to a trial; 

Averring that a lad named Ouentin Blane 

Brought tliee a letter from tiie murder'd 
Earl, 

With friendly greetings, telling of his 
journey. 

The lioiir which he set forth, the place he 
halted at, — 

Affording thee the means to form the am- 
bush, 

Of wliich your hatred made the application. 
AucH. A prudent Earl, indeed, if such 
his practice. 

When dealing with a recent enemy ! 

And what should he propose by such strange 
confidence 

In one who sought it not t 

GiF. His purposes were kindly, say the 
Kennedys — 

Desiring you would meet him where he 
halted. 

Offering to undertake whate'er commis- 
sions 

You listed trust him with, for court or city . 

And, thus apprised of Cassilis' purposed 
journey. 

And of his halting-place, you placed the 
ambush, 

Prepared t!ie homicides 

.AucH. They're free to say their pleasure. 
They are men 

Of the new court — and I am but a frag- 
ment 

Of stout old Morton's faction It is reason 

That sucli as I be rooted fiom the earth, 

That they may have full room to spread 
their branches. 

No doubt, 'tis easy to find strolling va- 
grants 

To prove whnte'cr they prompt. This 
Ouentin Blane — 

Did you not call him so ? — why comes he 
now ? 

And wherefore not before ? This must be 
answer'd — 

[Abruptly] — Where is he now ? 

GiF. Abroad — they say — kidnapp'd. 





A UCHINDRANE. 



507 



By you kidnapp'd, that he might die in 

Flanders. 
But orders have been sent for his discharge, 
And his transmission hither. 

AuCH. (asstaiiiiig an air of com- 
posure) — 
When they produce such witness, cousin 

Gifford, 
We'll be prepared to meet it. In the mean 

while, 
Vhe King doth ill to throw his royal 

sceptre 
In the accuser's scale, ere he can know 
How justice shall incline it. 

GiF. Our sage prince 

Resents, it may be, less the death of Cas- 

silis, 
Than he is angry that the feud should 

burn. 
After his royal voice had said, " Be 

quench'd : " 
Thus urging prosecution less for slaughter. 
Than that, being done against the King's 

command, 
Treason is mix'd with homicide. 

AucH. Ha! ha! most true, my cousin. 
Why, well consider'd, 'tis a crime so great 
To slay one's enemy, the King forbidding 

>t' . . 

Like parricide, it should be held impos- 
sible. 
'Tis just as if a wretch retain'd the evil, 
When the King's touch had bid the sores be 

heal'd ; 
And such a crime merits the stake at least. 
What ! can there be within a Scottish 

bosom 
A feud so deadly, that it kept its ground 
When the King said, Be friends ! It is not 

credible. 
Were I King James, I never would believe 

it : 
I'd rather think the story all a dream. 
And that there was no friendship, feud, nor 

journey. 
No halt, no ambush, and no Earl of Cas- 

silis, 
Than dream anointed Majesty has 

wrong ! — 
GiF. Speak within door, coz. 
AucH O, true. — (Aside) — I shall 

betray myself 
Even to this half-bred fool. — I must have 

room, 
Room for an instant, or I suffocate. — 
Cousin, I prithee call our Philip hither — 



'=-4- 



Forgive me ; 'twere more meet I summon'd 

him 
Myself ; but then the sight of yonder revel 
Would chafe my blood, and I have need of 

coolness. 
GiF. I understand thee — I will bring him 

straight. [Exit 

AucH. And if thou dost, he's lost his 

ancient trick 
To fathom, as he wont, his five-pint 

flagons. — 
This space is mine — O for the power to fill 

it. 
Instead of senseless rage and empty curses, 
With the dark spell which witches learn from 

fiends, 
That smites the object of their hate afar, 
Nor leaves a token of its mystic action. 
Stealing the soul from out the unscathed 

body, 
As lightning melts the blade, nor harms the 

scabbard ! 
—'Tis vain to wish for it — Each curse of 

mine 
Falls to the ground as harmless as the 

arrows 
Which children shoot at stars ! The time 

for thought. 
If thought could aught avail me, melts 

away, 
Like to a snowball in a schoolboy's hand, 
That melts the faster the more close he 

grasps it ! — 
If I had time, this Scottish Solomon, 
Whom some call son of David the Musi- 
cian, 
Might find it perilous work to march to 

Carrick . 
There's many a feud still slumbering in its 

ashes. 
Whose embers are yet red. Nobles we 

have. 
Stout as old Graysteel, and as hot as Both 

well ; 
Here too are castles look from crags as high 
On seas as wide as Logan's. So the 

King- 
Pshaw I He is here again^ 

Enter Gifford. 
GiF. I heard you name 

The King, my kinsman ; know, he comes 
not hither. 
AucH. (affecting indifference). Nay, then 
we need not broach our barrels- 
cousin, 




io8 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Nor purchase us new jerkins. — Comes not 

Philip ? 
GiF. Yes sir. He tarries but to drink a 

service 
To his good friends at parting. 

AuCH. Friends for the beadle or the 

sheriff -officer. 
Well, let it pass. Who comes, and how 

attended, 
Since James designs not westward ? 

GiF. O you shall have, instead, his fiery 

functionary, 
George Home that was, but now Dunbar's 

great Earl ; 
He leads a royal host, and comes to show 

you 
How he distributes justice on the Border, 
Where judge and hangman oft reverse their 

office. 
And the noose does its work before the 

sentence. 
But I have said my tidings best and worst. 
None but yourself can know what course 

the time 
And peril may demand. To lift your 

banner. 
If I might be a judge, were desperate 

game : 
Ireland and Galloway offer you con- 
venience 
For flight, if flight be thought the better 

remedy ; 
To face the court requires the conscious- 
ness 
And confidence of innocence. You alone 
Can judge if you jiossess these attributes. 

( A noise behi7id the scenes. ) 
AucH. Piiilip, 1 think, has broken up 

his revels ; 
His ragged regiment are dispersing them, 
Well liquor'd, doubtless. They're dis- 
banded soldiers, 
Or some such vagabonds. — Here comes the 

gallant. 

Enter Philip He has a buff-coat and 
head-piece, wears a sword and dagger, 
with pistols at his girdle. He appears 
to he affected by liquor, but to be by no 
means intoxicated. 

AucH You scarce have been made 
known to one another, 
Although you sate together at the board. — 
Son Pliilip, know and prize our cousin 
Gifford 
Phi. {tastes the wine on the table] — 



If you had praised him, sir, you had been 

loth 
To have welcomed him in bastard Alicant. 
I'll make amends, by pledgmg his good 

journey 
In glorious Burgundy. — The stirrup-cuji, 

ho! 
And bring my cousin's horses to the court. 

AuCH. {draws him aside) — • 
The stirrup-cup ! He doth not ride to- 
night- 
Shame on such churlish conduct to a 

kinsman ! 
Phi. (aside to his father). I've news 

of pressing import. 
-Send the fool off. — Stay, I will start him 

for you. 
( To GiF. ) Yes, my kind cousin. Burgundy 

is better, 
On a night-ride, to those who thread our 

moors, 
And we may deal it freely to our friends, 
P"or we came freely by it. Yonder ocean 
Rolls many a purple cask upon our shore. 
Rough with embossed shells and shagged 

sea-weed, 
When the good skipper and his careful 

crew 
Have had their latest earthly draught of 

brine. 
And gone to quench, or to endure their 

thirst. 
Where nectar's plenty, or even water's 

scarce. 
And filter'd to the parched crew by drops- 
full. 
AucH. Thou'rt mad, son Philip! Gif- 

ford's no intruder. 
That we should rid him hence by such wild 

rants : 
My kinsman hither rode at his own danger, 
To tell us that Dunbar is hasting to us. 
With a strong force, and with the King's 

commission. 
To enforce against our house a hatefu 

charge, 
With every measure of extremity. 

Phi. And is this all that our good 

cousin tells us ? 
I can say more, thanks to the ragged 

regiment. 
With whose good company you have up- 
braided me, 
On whose authority, I tell thee, cousin, 
Dunbar is here already. 
GiF. Already? 



^ 





AUCHINDKANE. 



5°9 



Phi. Yes, gentle coz. And you, my 

sire, be hasty 
In what you think to do. 

AucH. I think thou darest not jest on 

such a subject. 
Where hadst thou these fell tidings .'' 

Phi. Where you, too, might have heard 

them, noble father, 
Save that your ears, nail'd to our kins- 
man's lips. 
Would list no coarser accents. O, my 

soldiers. 
My merry crew of vagabonds, forever 1 
Scum of the Netherlands, and wash'd 

asliore 
Upon this coast like unregarded sea-weed. 
They had not been two hours on Scottish 

land, 
When, lo ! tliey met a military friend. 
An ancient fourier, known to them of old. 
Who, warm'd by certain stoups of search- 
ing wine, 
Inform'd his old companions that Dunbar 
Left Glasgow yesterday, comes here to- 
morrow ; 
Himself, he said, was sent a spy before, 
To view what preparations we were 

making. 
AucH. {to GiF.) If this be sooth, good 

kinsman, thou must claim 
To take a part with us for life and death, 
Or speed from hence, and leave us to our 

fortune. 
GiF. In such dilemma. 
Believe me, friend, I'd choose upon the 

instant — 
But I lack harness, and a steed to charge 

on. 
For mine is overtired, and, save my page. 
There's not a man to back me. But I'll hie 
To Kyle, and raise my vassals to your aid. 

Phi. 'Twill be when the rats, 
Tliat on these tidings fly this house of 

ours. 
Come back to pay their rents. ^ Apart. ) 

AucH. Courage, cousin !— 

Thou goest not hence ill mounted for thy 

need . 
Full torty coursers feed in my wide stalls — 
The best of them is yours to speed your 

journey. 
Phi. Stand not on ceremony, good ou- 

cousm. 
When safety signs, to shorten couitesy. 
(iiF. (to AucH.) Farewell, then, cousin, 

'or mv tarrying liere 



Were ruin to myself, small aid to you ; 
Yet loving well your name and family, 
I'd fain — 

Phi. Be gone? — that is our object, too— 
Kinsman, adieu. 

[Exit GiFFORD, Philip caHs aftet 
him. 

You yeoman of the stable. 

Give Master Gifford there my fleetest steed. 

Y^on cut-tail'd roan that trembles at a 

spear. — ■ 

{ Trampling of the horse heard going 

off.) 
Hark ! he departs. How swift the dastard 

rides. 
To shun the neighborhood of jeopardy ! 

(He lays aside the appearance oj 
levity which he has hitherto worn, 
and says very seriously) — 

And, now, my father — 
Auch. And now, my son — thou'st ta'en 
a perilous game 
Into thine hands, rejecting elder counsel, — 
How dost thou mean to play it ? 

Phi. Sir, good gamesters play not 
Till they review the cards which fate has 

dealt them, 
Computing thus the chances of the game ; 
And woefully they seem to weigh against 
us. 
Auch. Exile's a passing ill, and may be 
borne ; 
And when Dunbar, and all his myrmidons 
Are eastward turn'd, we'll seize our own 
again. 
Phi. Would that were all the risk we 
had to stand to ! 
But more and worse,— a doom of treason^ 

forfeiture. 
Death to ourselves, dishonor to our house, 
Is what the stern Justiciary menaces ; 
And, fatally for us, he hath the means 
To make his threatenings good. 
Auch. It cannot be. 1 tell thee, there's 
no force 
In Scottish law to raze a house like mine. 
Coeval witii the time the Lords of Ga- 

loway 
Submitted them unto the Scottish sceptre, 
Renouncing rights of Tamstry and Brehon. 
Some dreams they have of evidence — 

some suspicion ; 
But old Montgomery knows my purpose 

well, 
.'^nd long before their mandate reach th'' 
camp 





M. 



510 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



To crave the presence of this mightj wit- 
ness. 
He will be fitted with an answer tc it. 
Phi. Father, what we call great, is often 

ruin'd 
By means so ludicrously disproportion 'd, 
They make me think upon the gunner's 

linstock, 
Which, yieldmg forth a light about the 

size 
And semblance of the glowworm, yet 

applied 
To powder, blew a palace into atoms, 
Sent a youn;; King — a young Queen's mate 

at least — • 
Into the an-, as high as e'er fiew night- 
hawk, 
And made such wild work in the realm of 

Scotland, 
As they can tell who heard, — and you were 

one 
Who saw, perhaps, the night-flight which 

began it. 
AucH. If thou hast naught to speak but 

drunken folly, 
1 cannot listen longer. 

Phi. I will speak brief and sudden. — 

There is one 
Whose tongue to us has the same perilous 

force 
Which Bothwell's powder had to Kirk of 

Field ; 
One whose least tones, and those but peas- 
ant accents. 
Could rend the roof off our fathers' castle, 
Level its tallest turret with its base ; 
And he that doth possess this wondrous 

power 
Sleeps this same night not five miles distant 

from us. 
AuCH. [TX<ho had looked on Philip with 

tmich appearance of astonishment and 

doicbt. exclaims^ — 
I'hen thou art mad indeed ! Ha I ha ! Pni 

glad on't. 
Pd purchase an escape from what I dread, 
Even by the frenzy of my only son : 
Phi. I thank you, but agree not to the 

bargain. 
Vou rest on what yon civet cat has said : 
Yon silken doublet, stuff'd with rotten 

straw, 
Told you but half the truth, and knew no 

more. 
But my good vagrants had a perfect 

tale- 



They told me, little judging the import 

ance, 
That Ouentin B'ane had been discharged 

witli tliem 
Thev told me. tlial a quarrel happ'd at 

'anding. 
And that the voungster and an ancient 

sergeant 
Had left their company, and taken refuge 
In Chapeldonan, where our ranger dwells ; 
Thev saw him scale the cliff on which it 

stands. 
Ere they were out of sight ; the old man with 

him 
And therefore laugh no more at me as 

mad . 
But laugh, if thou hast list for merriment. 
To think he stands on the same land with 

us, 
Whose absence thou wouldst deem were 

cheaply purchased * 

With thy soul's ransom and thy body's 

danger. 
AuCH. 'Tis then a fatal truth. Thou art 

no yelper 
To open rashly on so wild a scent ; 
Thou'rt the young bloodhound, which 

careers and springs, 
Frolics and fawns, as if the friend of man, 
But seizes on his victina like a tiger. 
Phi. No matter what I am — I'm as yoa 

bred me ; 
So let that pass till there be time to mend 

me. 
And let us speak like men, and to the pur- 
pose 
This object of out fear and of our dread, 
Since such our pride must own him. sleeps 

to-night 
Within our power — to-morrow in Dun- 
bar's, 
And we are then his victims. 
AucA He is in curs to-night. 
Phi. He is I'll answer that MacLellan's 

trusty. 
AucH Yet he replied to you to-day full 

rudelv. 
Phi Yes' the poor knave has got a 

handsome wife. 
And is gone mad with jealousv. 

Auch Fool ! — when we need the utmost 

faith, allegiance, 
Obedience, and attachment in our vassals. 
Thy Wild intrigues pour gall into their 

hearts. 
And turn their love to hatred! 



^^ 





AUCHINDRANE. 



;ii 



Phi. Most reverend sire, you talk of 
ancient morals, 
Preach 'd on by Knox, and practised by 

Glencairn : 
Respectable, indeed, but somewhat musty 
In these our modern nostrils. In our days 
If a younq baron chance to leave his vassal 
The sole possessor of a handsome wife, 
'Tis sign he loves his follower ; and if not, 
He loves his follower's wife, which often 

proves 
The surer bond of patronage. Take either 

case 
Favor flows m of course, and vassals rise, 

AucH. Phihp, this IS infamous, 
And wliat is worse, impolitic. Take ex- 
ample • 
Break not God's laws or man's for each 

temptation 
That youth and blood suggest. 1 am a 

man — ■ 
A weak and erring man ; — full well thou 

know'st 
That I may hardly term myself a pattern 
Even to my son ; yet thus far will I say, 
I never swerved from my integrity. 
Save at the voice of strong necessity, 
Or such o'erpowenng view of high ad- 
vantage 
As wise men liken to necessity, 
In strength and force compulsive. No one 

saw me 
Exchange my reputation for my pleasure, 
Or do the Devil's work without his wages. 
I practised prudence, and paid tax to vir- 
tue, 
By following her behests, save where strong 

leason 
Compell'd a deviation. Then, if preachers 
At times look'd sour, or elders shook their 

heads. 
They could not term my walk irregular ; 
For I stood up still tot the worthier cause, 
A pillar, though a flaw'd one, of the altar. 
Kept a strict walk, and led three hundred 
hoise. 
Phi. .'^h, these three hundred horse in 
such rough times 
Were better commendation to a party 
Than all your efforts at hypocrisy, 
Bettay'd so oft by avarice and ambition. 
And dragg'd to open shame. But, righteous 

father, 
When sire and son unite in mutual crime, 
And join their efforts to the same enormity, 
It is no time to nieasure other's faults. 



Or fix the amount of each. Most moral 

father, 
Think if it be a moment to weigh 
The vices of the Heir of Auchindrane, 
Or take precaution that the ancient house 
Shall have another heir than the sly cour- 
tier 
That's gaping for the forfeiture. 

AucH. We'll disappoint him, Philip,-. 
We'll disappoint him yet. It is a folly, 
A wilful cheat, to cast our eyes behind, 
When time, and the fast' flitting oppor- 
tunity. 
Call loudly — nay, compel us to look ''or 

ward: 
\Vhy arc we not already at MacLellan's, 
Since there the victim sleeps ? 

Phi. Nay, soft, I jvay thee. 

I had not made your piety my confr.ssor, 
Nor enter'd in debate on these sage coun- 
sels. 
Which you're more like to give than I to 

profit by, 
Could I have used the time more use- 
fully ; 
But first an interval must pass between 
The fate of Ouentin and the little artifice 
That shall detach him from his comrade, 
The stout old soldier that I told you of. 
AucH. How work a point so difficult — so 

dange-'ous .'' 
Phi. 'Tis cared for. Mark, my father, 
the convenience 
Arising from mean company. My agents 
Are at my hand, like a good workman's 

tools. 
And if I mean a mischief, ten to one 
That they anticipate the deed and guilt. 
Well knowing this, when first the vagrants' 

tattle 
Gave me the hint that Quentin was so 

near us. 
Instant I sent MacLellan, with strong 

charges 
To stop him for the night, and bring me 

word, 
Like an accomplish'd spy, liow all things 

stood, 
Lulling the enemy into security. 

AucH. There was a prudent general ' 
Phi, MacLellan went and came within the 
hour. 
The jealous bee, which buzzes in his night- 
cap. 
Had humm'd to him, this fellow, Quentin 
Blane, 





512 



SCOTT'S POETJCAL JI'O/CA'S. 



Had been in sclioolboy days an humble 

lover 
Of his own pretty wife — 

Au~H. Most fortunate ! 

Tlie knave will be more prompt to serve our 

purpose. 
Phi. No doubt cn't. 'Mid the tidings 

he broui^lit back, 
Was one of some importance. The old 

man 
Is flush of dollars ; this I caused him tell 
Among his comrades, who became as 

eager 
To have him in their company, as e'er 
They had been wild to part with him. And 

in brief space, 
A letter's framed by an old hand amongst 

them, 
Familiar with such feats. It bore the 

name 
And character of old Montgomery, 
Whom he miglit well suppose at no great 

distance. 
Commanding his old Sergeant Hildebrand, 
By all the ties of late authority, 
Conjuring Inm by ancient solcliership, 
To hasten to liis mansion instantly, 
On business of liigh import, with a charge 

To come alone 

AucH. Well, he sets out, I doubt it not : 

what follows ? 
Phi. I am not curious into others' prac- 
tices, — 
So far I'm an economist in guilt. 
As you, my sire, advise. But on the road 
To old Montgomery's he meets his com- 
rades ; 
They nourish grudge against him and his 

dollars. 
And things may hap, which counsel, learn"d 

in lavv. 
Call Robbery and Murder. Should he live, 
He has seen naught that we would hide from 

him. 
AvcH. Who carries the forged letter to 

the veteran .'' 
Phi. Why, Niel MacLellan, wjio return'd 

agam 
To his own tower, as if to pass the night 

there. 
They pass'd on him, or tried to pass, a 

story, 
As if they wish'd the sergeant's company. 
Without the young comptroller's — that is, 

Quentm's, 
And he became an agent of their plot, 



That he might better carry on our own. 
AucH There's life in it — yes, there is 
life in't ; 
And we will have a mounted party ready 
To scour the moors in quest of the banditti 
That kill'd the poor old man — they shall die 

instantly. 
Dunbar shall see us use sharp justice here- 
As well as he in Teviotdale. You are sure 
You gave no hint nor impulse to their pur- 
pose ? 
Phi. It needed not. The whole pack 
oped at once 
Upon the scent of dollars. — But time comes 
Wiien I must seek the tower, and act with 

Niel 
What farther's to be done. 

AucH. Alone with him thou goest not. 
He bears grudge — 
Thou art my only son, and on a night 
When such wild passions are so free 

abroad. 
When such wild deeds are doing, 'tis but 

natural 
I guarantee thy safety. — I'll ride with thee. 
Phi. E'en as you will, my lord. But — 
pardon me — 
If you will come, let us not have a word 
Of conscience, and of pity, and forgiveness • 
Fine words to-morrow, out of j^Iace to- 
night. 
Take counsel, then— leave all this work to 

me ; 
Call up your household, make fit prepara- 
tion. 
In love and peace, to welcome this Earl 

justiciar. 
As one that's free of guilt. Go, deck the 

castle 
As for an honor'd guest. Hallow the 

chapel 
(If they have power to hallow it) with thy 

prayers. 
Let me ride forth alone, and ere the sun 
Comes o'er the eastern hiil, thou shalt 

accost him : 
" Now do thy worst, thou oft-rcturring spy, 
Here's naught thou canst discover.'' 

AucH. Yet goest thou not alone with that 
MacLellan ! 
He deems thou bearest will to injure him. 
And seek'st occasion suiting to such will. 
Pliilip, thou art irreverent, fierce, ill- 
nurtured, 
Stain'd with low vices, whicii disgust a 
father ; 





1 




<• ^ 


c I n c 1 •) 


-. tt>\ 




4^ 

"1 r* 


(. 1 J c — 1 — J 


1 f 






AUCHINDRANE. 51 


1- 




Yet ridest thou not alone with yonder 


Bethink thee that conviction of this slaugl 




man, — 


ter 






Come weal, come woe, myself will ?o with 


Confirms the very worst of accusations 




' 


thee. 


Our foes can bring against us. Wherefore 






\Exit, and calls to horse behind the scene. 


should we. 






Phi. {alone). Now would 1 give my fleet- 


Who by our birth and fortune mate with 






est horse to know 


nobles, 






What sudden thought roused this paternal 


And are allied with them, take this lad's 






care, 


life,— 






And if 'tis on his own account or mine ; 


His peasant life, — unless to quash his evi- 






'Tis true, he hath the deepest share m all 


dence. 






That's likely now to hap, or which has hap- 


Taking such pains to rid him from the 






pen'd. 


world, 






Yet strong through Nature's universal reign. 


Who would, if spared, have fix'd a crime 






The link which binds the parent to the off- 


upon us. 






spring : 


Phi. Well, I do own me one of those 






The she-wolf knows it, and the tigress owns 
it. 


wise folks. 
Who think that when a deed of fate is 






So that dark man, who, shunning what is 


plann'd, 






vicious. 


The execution cannot be too rapid. 






Ne'er turn'd aside from an atrocity, 


But do we still keep purpose .? Is't deter- 






Hath stiU some care left for his hapless off- 


mined 






spring. 


He sails for Ireland — and without a 






Therefore 'tis meet, though wayward, light. 


wherry ? 






and stubborn. 


Salt water is his passport — is it not so ? 






That I should do for him all that a son 


AuCH. I would it could be otherwise 1 






Can do for sire — and his dark wisdom 


Might he not go there while in life and 






join'd 


limb. 






To influence m.y bold courses, 'twill be hard 


And breathe his span out in another air ? 






To break our mutual purpose. — Horses 


Many seek Ulster never to return — 






there ! [Exit. 


Why might this wretched youth not har- 
bor there ? 






ACT III.— Scene I. 


Phi. With all my heart. It is small 






// is Moonlight . The Scene is the Beach 
beneath the Tozver tthich was exhibited 
in the first scene, — the Vessel is gone 
from her anchorage. Auchindrane 
««(!' Philip, as ^f dismounted from their 


honor to me 
To be the agent in a work like this.— 
Yet this poor caitiff, having thrust himself 
Into the secrets of a noble house. 






And twined himself so closely with our 

safety, 
That we nnist perish, or that he must die, 






horses, come for-ward cantioitsly. 






Phi. The nags are safely stow'd. Their 


I'll hesitate as little on the action. 






noise might scare him ; 


As I would do to slay the animal 






Let them be safe, and ready when we need 


Whose flesh supplies my dinner. 'Tis as 






them. 


harmless, 






The business but short. We'll call Mac- 


That deer or steer, as is this Quentin Blane, 






Lellan, 


And not more necessary is its death 






To wake him, and in quiet bring him forth. 


To our accommodation — so we slay it 






if he be so disposed, for here are waters 


Without a moment's pause or hesitation. 






Enough to drown, and sand enough to cover 


AuCH. 'Tis not, my son, the feeling call'd 






him. 


remorse. 






But if he hesitate, or fear to meet us, 


That now lies tugging at this heart of 






By heaven I'll deal him in Chapeldonan 


mine. 




• 


~i r» With my own liand ! — 


Engendering thoughts that stop the lifted ri 


> 




AucH. Too furious boy ! alarm or noise 


hand. 






undoes us : 


Have I not heard John Knox pour forth his 






Our practice must be silent as 'tis sudden. 


thunrtfirs 




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514 SCOTT'S POE TIC A L I VOPKS. 


[ 




Against the oppressor and the man of 


To read him through and through, as 




blood, 


would read 






In accents of a minister of vengeance ? 


Some paltry rhyme of vulgar prophecy, J [, 






Were not his fiery eyeballs turn'd on me, 


Said to contain the fortunes of my house ; 






As if he said expressly, " Thoifrt the man ? " 


And let me speak him truly— He is grateful, 






Yet did my solid purpose, as 1 listen'd. 


Kind, tractable, obedient — a child 






Remain unshaken as that massive rock. 


Might lead him by a thread — He shall not 






Phi. Well, then, I'll understand 'tis not 


die! 






remorse. — 


Phi. Indeed ! — then have we had our 






As 'tis a foible little known to thee, — 


midnight ride 






That interrupts thy purpose. What, then, 


To wondrous little purpose. 






is it? 


AucH. By the blue heaven. 






Is't scorn, or is't compassion ? One thing's 


Thou shalt not murder him, cold, selfish 






certain, — 


sensualist ! 






Either the feeling must have free indul- 


Yon pure vault speaks it— yonder summer 






gence, 


moon. 






Or fully be subjected to your reason — 


With its ten million sparklers, cries, For- 






There is no room for these same treach'- 


bear ! 






rous courses. 


The deep earth sighs it forth— Thou shalt 






Which men call moderate measures. 


not murder ! 






We must confide in Ouentin, or must slay 


Thou shalt not mar the image of thy maker ! 






him. 


Thou shalt not from thy brother take the 






AucH. In Ireland he might live afar 


life. 






from us. 


The gracious gift which God alone can give ! 






Phi. Among Queen Mary's faithful par- 


Phi. Here is a worthy guerdon now, for 






tisans, 


stuffing 






Your ancient enemies, the haughty Hamil- 


His memory with old saws and holy sayings ! 






tons. 


They come upon him in the very crisis. 






The stern MacDonnells and resentful 


And when his resolution should be firmest, 






Graemes — ■ 


They shake it like a palsy. — Let it be. 






With these around him, and with Cassilis' 


He'll end at last by yielding to temptation, 






death 


Consenting to the thing which must be 






Exasperating them against you, think, my 


done, 






father. 


With more remorse the more he hesi' 






What chance of Ouentin's silence. 


tates.— 






AucH. Too True — too true. He is a 


( To his Father, -who has stood fixed after 






silly youth, too, 


his last speech ) — 






Who had not wit to shift for his own 


AVell, sir, 'tis fitting you resolve at last, 






living — ■ 


How the young clerk should be disposed 






A bashful lover, whom his rivals laugh'd 


upon ; 






at— 


Unless vou would ride home to Auchin- 






Of pliant temper, which companions 


drane, 






play'd on — 


And bid them rear the maiden in the 






.V moonlight waker, and a noontide 


court-yard, 






dreamer — 


That when Dunbar comes, he have naught 






A torturer of phrases into sonnets, 


to do 






Whom all might lead that chose to praise 


But bid us kiss the cushion and the heads- 






his rhymes. 


man. 






Phi. I marvel that your memory has 


AucH. It is too true.— There is no 






room 


safety for us, 






To hold so much on such a worthless 


Consistent with the unhappy wretch's life ! 






subject. 


In Ireland he is sure to find my enemies. 






] f' AuCH. Base in himself, and yet so 


Arran I've proved — the Netherlands I've '\ p 






strangely link'd 


tried. 






With me and with my fortunes, that I've 


But wilds ar.d wars return him on my 






studied 


hands. 






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A UCHINDRANE. 



515 



Phi. Yet fear not, father, we'll make 
surer work ; 
The land has caves, the sea has whirlpools, 
Where that which they suck in returns no 
more. 
AuCH. I will know naught of it, hard- 

Iiearted boy ! 
Phi. Hard-hearted! Why— my heart is 
soft as yours ; 
But then they must not feel remorse at 

once — 
We can't afford such wasteful tenderness : 
I can mouth forth remorse as well as you. 
Be executioner, and Til be chaplain. 
And say as mild and moving things as vou 

can ; 
But one of us must keep his steely temper. 
AucH. Do thou the deed — I cannot 

look on it. 
Phi. So be it. Walk with me— Mac- 
Lellan brings him. 
The boat lies moor'd within that reach of 

rock. 
And 'twill require our greatest strength 

combined 
To launch it from the beach. Meantime, 

MacLellan 
Brings our man hither. — See the twink- 
ling light 
That glances in tlie tower. 

AucH. Let us withdrpw — for should he 
spy us suddenly. 
He may suspect us, and alarm the familv. 
Phi. Fear not — MacLellan has ' his 
trust and confidence, 
Bought with a few sweet words and wel- 
co.nies home. 
AucH. But think you that the Ranger 

may be trusted ? 
Phi. I'll answer for him, — Let's go float 
the shallop. 

{They go off, and as they leave the 
Stage, MacLellan is seen de- 
scending from the Tower with 
OUENTIN. The former bears a 
dark lanterti. They cotne upon 
the Stage. 
Mac. {shozvlng the light ) — 
So — bravely done— that's the last ledge of 

rocks, 
And we are on the sands.— I have broke 

your slumbers 
Somewhat untimely. 

Que. Do not think so, friend. 

These six years past 1 have been used to 
stir 



When the reveille run j- ; and that, believe 

me, 
Chooses the hours for rousing me at ran- 
dom, 
And, having given its summons, yields no 

license 
To indulge a second slumber. Nay more, 

I'll tell thee, 
That, like a pleased child, I was e'en toe 

happy 
For sound repose. 

Mac. The greater fool were you. 

Men should enjoy the moments gi^ en tc 

slumber ; 
For who can tell how soon may be the 

waking. 
Or where we shall have leave to sleep 
again ? 
Que. The God of Slumber comes not 
at command. 
Last night the blood danced merry through 

my veins : 
Instead of finding this our land of Carrick 
The dreary waste my fears had appre- 
hended, 
I saw thy wife, MacLellan, and thy daugh- 
ter. 
And had a brother's welcome ; saw thee, 

too, 
Renew'd my early friendship with you 

both, 
And felt once more that I had friends and 

coimtry. 
So keen the joy that tingled through my 

system, 
Join'd with the searching powers of yon- 
der wine, 
That I am glad to leave my feverish lair. 
Although my hostess smooth"d niy couch 

herself, 
To cool my brow upon this moonlight 

beach, 
Gaze on the moonlight dancing on the 

waves. 
Such scenes 'are wont to soothe me intc. 

melancholy ; 
But such the hurry of my spirits now, 
That everything I look on makes me laugh. 
Mac. I've seen but few so gamesome, 
Master Quentin, 
Being roused from sleep so suddenly as 
you were. 
Que. Why, there's the jest on't. Your 
old castle's haunted. 
In vain the host— in vain the lovely hostess, 
In kind addition to all means of rest, 



Tq= 





5^^ 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORK'S. 



Add their best wishes for our sound re- 
pose, 
When some hobgoblin brings a pressing 

message : 
Montgomery presently must see his ser- 
geant, 
And up gets Hildebrand, and off he trudges. 
I can't but laugh to think upon the grin 
With which he doff'd the kerchief he had 

twisted 
Around his brows, and put his morion on — 
Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Mac. I'm glad to see you merry, 

Ouentin. 
Que. Why, faith, my spirits are but 
transitory, 
And you may live with me a month or 

more, 
And never see me smile. Then some such 

trifle 
As yonder little maid of yours would laugh 

'at, 
Will serve me for a theme of merriment — 
Even now, I scarce can keep my gravity ; 
We were so snugly settled in our quarters. 
With full intent to let the sun be high 
Ere we should leave our beds — and first 

the one 
And then the other's summon'd briefly 

forth 
To the old tune, " Black Bandsmen, up 
and march ! " 
Mac. Well, you shall sleep anon — rely 
upon it — 
And make up time misspent. Meantime, 

methinks, 
You are so merry on your broken slumbers, 
You ask'd not why 1 call'd you. 

Que. I can guess. 

You lack my aid to search the weir for 

seals. 
You lack my company to stalk a deer. 
Think you I have forgot your sylvan tasks, 
Which oft you have permitted me to share, 
Till days that we were rivals ? 

Mac. You have memory 

Of that too !— 

Que. Like the memory of a dream. 

Delusion far too exquisite to last, 

Mac. You guess not then for what I 
call you forth ! 
It was to meet a frin;nd — 

Que. What friend? I'hyselt excepted. 
The good old man who's gone to see 

Montgomery, 
And one to whom 1 once gave dearer title, 



I know not in wide Scotland man or 

woman 
Whom I could name a friend. 

M.AC. Thou art mistaken. 

There is a Baron, and a powerful one 

Que. There flies my fit of mirth. You 
hPive a grave 
And alter' d man before you. 

Mac Compose yourself, there is no cause 
for fear, — 
He will and must speak with you. 

Que. Spare me the meeting, Niel, — I can- 
not see him. 
Say, I'm just landed on my native earth ; 
Say, that I will not cumber it a day ; 
Say, that my wretched thread ut poor ex- 
istence 
Shall be drawn out in solitude and exile, 
Where never memory ot so mean a tiling 
Again shall cross his path — but do not ask 

me. 
To seek or speak again with that dark man! 
M.\C. Your fears are now as foolish as 
your mirth — 
What should the powerful Knight of Au- 

chmdrane 
In common have with such a man as thou ? 
Que. No matter what — Enough, I will 

not see him. 
Mac. He is thy master, and he claims 

obedience. 
Que. My master? Ay, my task-master — 
Ever since 
I could write, man, his hand hath been 

upon me ; 
No step I've made but cumber'd with his 

chain. 
And I am weary on't- — I will not see him. 
Mac. You must and shall — there is no 

remedy, 
Que. Take heed that you compel me not 
to find one. 
I've seen the wars since we had s*.rife to- 
gether ; 
To put my late experience to the test 
Were something dangerous — Ha ! I am 
betray'd ! 

{While the latter part of this dialogue 
is f<assi7ig, AucHiNDRANE and 
Philip enter on the Stage from be- 
hind and suddenly present them- 
selves. 
AucH. What says the runagate ? 
Que. (laying aside all appearance of 
resistance) — 
Nothing. You are my fate : 




JI 






AUCHINDKAXE. 



sn 



And in a shape more fearfully resistless 

My evil angel could not stand before me. 
AucH. And so you scruple, slave, at my 
command, 

To meet me when ] deign to ask thy pres- 
ence ? 
Que. No, sir: I had forgot~I am 3'our 
bond-slave ; 

But sure a passing thought of indepen- 
dence. 

For which I've seen whole nations doinn- 
battle, 

Was not, in one who has so Ion? enioved 
it, a J J 

A crime beyond forgiveness. 
„AucH. ■ We shall see: 

1 hou wert my vassal, born upon my land, 
Bred by my bounty— it concern'd me 

highly, 
Thou know'st it did— and yet, against my 

charge, 
Again I find thy worthlessness in Scotland. 
Que. Alas ! the wealthy and the powerful 
know not 
How very dear to those who have least 

share in't 
Is that sweet word of country ! The poor 

exile 
Feels, in each action of the varied day. 
His doom of banishment. The very air 
Cools not his brow as in his native land ; 
The scene is strange, the food is loathly to 

him ; 
The language— nay, the music jars his ear. 
"Why should I, guiltless of the slightest 

crime, 
Suffer a punishment which, sparing life, 
Deprives that life of all which men hold 

dear ? 
- AucH. Hear ye the serf I bred begin to 

reckon 
Upon his rights and pleasures ! Who am 

Thou abject, who am I, whose will thou 

thwartest ? 
Phi. Well spoke, my pious sire. There 

goes remorse ! 
Let once thy precious pride take fire, and 

then, 
MacLellan, you and I mav have small 

trouble. 
Que. Your words are deadly, and vour 

power resistless ; 
I'm in your hands-but, surely, less than 

lire 
May give you the security you seek, 



Without commission of a mortal crime. 
AuCH. Who is't would deign to think 
upon thy life? 
I but require of thee to SDeed to Ireland, 
Where thou may'st sojourn for some little 

space. 
Having due means of Jiving dealt to thee. 
And, when it suits the changes ot the times, 
Permission to return. 

Que. Noble my lord, 

I am too weak to combat with your pleas- 
ure ; 
Yet O, for mercy's sake, and for the sake 
Of that dear land which is our common 

mother. 
Let me not part in darkness from my 

country ! 
Pass but an hour or two, and every cape 
Headland, and bay, shall gleam with new- 
born hght. 
And I'll take boat as gayly as the bird 
That soars to meet the morning. 
Grant me but this— to show no darker 

thoughts 
Are on your heart than those your speech 
expresses ! 
Phi. A modest favor, friend, is this you 
ask ! 
Are we to pace the beach like watermen, 
Waitmg your worship's pleasure to take 

boat ? 
No, by my faith ! you go upon the instant. 
The boat lies ready, and the ship receives 

you 
Near to the Point of Turnberry.— Come, we 

wait you ; 
Bestir you ! 

Que. I obey.— Then farewell, Scotland! 
And Heaven forgive my sins, and grant that 

mercy 
Which mortal man deserves not ! 

AucH. {speaks aside to /zw ^'ow)— What 
signal 
Shall let me know 'tis done } 
^ Phi. When the light is quench'd, 

Your fears for Ouentin Blane are at an end. 

{To Que.) Come, comrade, come, we must 
begin our voyage. 
Que. But when — O when to end it ! 

[He goes o_^ reluctantly uu/h Philip 
and MacLell.'VN. Auchin- 
Dr.'^ne stands lookifjg after t/iem. 
The Moo7i becomes oi'erclo:ided, 
and the Stage dark. AuCHlN- 
drane, u<ko has gazed fixedly 
and eagerly after those who have 





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5 1 8 SCO TT 'S POE TIC A L WORKS. 






left the stage, becomes animated, 


Upon her crest— (^ faint cry heard as 




a«rf s/eais. 


from seawai-d. ) 






J [^ AucH. It is no fallacy ! — The night is 


Ah ! there was fatal evidence, 






J dark, 


All's over now, indeed I — The light is *^ 
quench'd — 


■» 




The moon has sunk before the deepening 






clouds ; 


And Ouentin, source of all my fear, exists 






I cannot on the murky beach distinguish 


not. — 






The shallop from the rocks which lie be- 


The morning tide shall sweep his corpse 






side it ; 


to sea. 






I cannot see tall Philip's floating plume, 


And hide all memory of this stern night's 


, 




Nor trace the sullen brow of Niel Mac- 


work. 






Lellan ; 


\He walks in a slow and deeply 






Yet still that caitiff's visage is before me. 


meditative manner towards the 






With chattering teeth, mazed look, and 


side of the Stage, and suddenly 






bristling hair, 


meets Marion the wife of Mac- 






As he stood here this moment ! — Have I 


Lellan, who has descended from 






changed 


the Castle. 






My human eyes for those of some night 


Now, how to meet Dunbar — Heaven guard 






prowler, 


my senses ! 






The wolf's, the tiger-cat's, or the hoarse 


Stand ! who goes there ? — Do spirits walk 






bird's 


the earth 






That spies its prey at midnight ? I can 


Ere yet they've left the body ! 






see him — 


Mar. Is it you. 






Yes, I can see him, seeing no one else, — 


My lord, on this wild beach at such an 






And well it is I do so. In his absence, 


hour ? 






Strange thoughts of pity mingled with my 


AucH. It is MacLellan's wife, in search 






purpose. 


of him, 






And moved remorse within me— But they 


Or of her lover — of the murderer. 






vanish'd 


Or of the murder'd man. — Go to. Dame 






Whene'er he stood a living man before 


Marion ; 






me; 


Men have their hunting-gear to give an 






Then my antipathy awaked within me, 


eye to, 






Seeing its object close within my reach. 


Their snares and trackings for their game. 






Till I could scarce forbear him. — How they 


But women 






linger ! 


Should shun the night air. A young wife 






The boat's not yet to sea ! — I ask myself. 


also, 






What has the poor wretch done to wake my 


Still more a handsome one, should keep 






hatred — 


her pillow 






Docile, obedient and in sufferance pa- 


Till the sun gives example for her wakening. 






tient !— 


Come, Dame, go back — back to your bed* 






As well demand what evil has the hare 


again. 






Done to the hound that courses her in sport. 


Mar. Hear me, my lord! there have 






Instinct infallible supplies the reason — 


been sights and sounds 






And that must plead my cause. — The 


That terrified my child and me — Groans, 






vision's gone ! 


screams, 






Their boat now walks the waves ; a single 


As if of dying seamen, came from ocean — 






gleam. 


A corpse-light danced upon the crested 






Now seen, now lost, is all that marks her 


waves 






course ; 


For several minutes' space, then sunk at 






That soon shall vanish too — than all is 


once. 






over ! — 


When we retired to rest we had two guests. 






Would it were o'er, for in this moment lies 


Besides my husband Niel— I'll tell your 






„ _ The agony of ages ; — Now, 'tis gone — 


lordship _ , 






And all is acted ! — No — she breasts again 


Who the men were 






The opposing wave, and bears the tiny 


AucH. Pshaw, woman, can you think 






sparkle 


That I have any interest in your gossips ? 






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1 





A UCHINDRANE. 



5^9 



Please your own husband, and that you 

may please him, 
Get thee to bed, and shut up doors, good 

dame. 
Were 1 MacLellan, I should scarce be 

satisfied 
To find thee wandering here in mist and 

moonlight, 
When silence should be in thy habitation. 
And sleep upon thy pillow. 

Mar. Good my lord, 

This is a holyday. — By an ancient custom 
Our children seek the shore at break of day, 
And gather shells( and dance, and play, and 

sport them 
In honor of the Ocean. Old men say 
The custom is derived from heathen times. 

Our Isabel 
Is mistress of the feast, and you may think 
She is awake already, and impatient 
To be the first shall stand upon the beach, 
.'^nd bid the sun good-morrow. 

AucH. Ay, indeed.'' 

Linger such dregs of heathendom among 

you ? 
And hath Knox preach'd, and Wishart 

died, in vain ? 
Take notice, I forbid these sinful practices. 
And will not have my followers mingle in 

them. 
Mar. If such your honor's pleasure, I 

must go 
And lock the door on Isabel ; she is wilful, 
And voice of mine will have small force to 

keep her 
From the amusement she so long has 

dream'd of. 
But I must tell your honor, the old people. 
That were survivors of the former race, 
Prophesied evil if this day should pass 
Without due homage to the mighty Ocean. 
AucH. Folly and Papistry — Perhaps 

the Ocean 
Hath had his morning sacrifice already ; 
Or can you think the dreadful element, 
Whose frown is death, whose roar the 

dirge of navies. 
Will miss the idle pageant you prepare? 
I've business for you, too — the dawn ad- 
vances — 
I'd have thee lock thy little child in safety. 
And get to Auchindrane before the sun rise ; 
Tell them to get a royal banquet ready, 
As if a king were coming there to feast him. 
Mar. I will obey your pleasure. But 

my husband 



AucH. I wait him on the beach, and 
bring him in 
To share the banquet. 

Mar. But he has a friend. 

Whom it would ill become him to intrude 
Upon your hospitality. 
AuCH. Fear not ; his friend shall be 
made welcome too. 
Should he return with Niel. 

Mar. He must — he will return — he has 

no option. 
AucH. {apart). Thus rashly do we deem 
of others' destiny — 
He has indeed no option — but he comes not. 
Begone on thy commission — I go this way 
To meet thy husband. 

[M \RION goes to her Tower, and 
after entering it, is seen to come 
out, lock the door, and leave the 
stage, as if to execute Auchin- 
DRANe's coin>mssio?i. He, appar- 
ently going off i7i a different di- 
rection, has watched her from the 
side of the stage, and on her de- 
parture speaks. 
AucH. Fare thee well, fond woman. 
Most dangerous of spies — thou prying, 

prating. 
Spying and telling woman ! I've cut short 
Thy dangerous testimony — Hated word ! 
What other evidence have we cut short. 
And by what fated means, this dreary 

morning ! — 
Bright lances here and helmets ! — I must 

shift 
To join the others. \Exit. 

Enter from the other side the Sergeant, 
accompanied -with an Officer and two 
Pikemen. 

Ser, 'Twas in good time you came; a 
minute later 
The knaves had ta'en my dollars and my life. 
Off. You fought most stoutly Two of 
them were down 
Ere we came to your aid. 

Ser. Gramercy, halberd ! 

And well it happens, since your leader seeks 
This Ouentin Blane, that you have fall'n 

on me ; 
None else can surely tell you where he hides, 
Being in some fear, and bent to quit this 
province. 
Off. 'Twill do our Earl good service. 

He has sent 
Despatches into Holland for this Quentui 





^ 




5-^ 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Ser. I left him two hours since in yonder 
tower, 

Under the guard of one who smoothly 
spoke, 

Although he look'd but roughly — I will 
chide him 

Forbidding me go forth witli yonder trai- 
tor. 
Off. Assure yourself 'twas a concerted 
stratagem. 

Montgomery's been at Holyrood for 
months, 

And can have sent no letter — 'twas a plan 

On you and on your dollars, and a base 
one, 

To which this Ranger was most likely 
privy. 

Such men as he hang on our fiercer barons, 

The ready agents of their lawless will ; 

Boys of the belt, who aid their master's 
pleasures, 

And in his moods ne'er scruple his injunc- 
tions. 

But haste, for now we must unkennel 
Ouentin ; 

I've strictest charge concerning him. 
Ser. Go up, then, to the tower. 

You've younger limbs than mine ; there 
shall you find him 

Lounging and snoring, like a lazy cur 

Before a stable door ; it is his practice. 

\The Officer goes tip to the Tower i 
and after knockiiig without receiv- 
ing an ansjver, turns the key which 
Marion had left in the lock, and 
enters ; Isabel, dressed as if for 
her dance, runs out and descends to 
the Stage i the Qfficbr follows . 

Off. There's no one in the house, this 
little maid 

Excepted 

IsA. And for me, I'm there no longer, 
And will not be again for three hours good ; 
I'm going to join my playmates on the 
sands. 
Off. {detaining her). You shall, when 
you have told to me distinctly 
Where are the guests who slept up there 
last night. 
IsA. Why, there is the old man, he stands 
beside you, [hair ; 

The merrv old man with the glistening 
He left the tower at midnight, for my 

father 
Brought him a letter. 



Ser. In ill hour I left yoa, 

I wish to Heaven that I had stay'd with 

you ! 
There is a nameless horror that comes o'er 

me. — 
Speak, pretty maiden, tell us what chanced 

next, 
And thou shalt have thy freedom. 

IsA. After you went last night, my father 
Grew moody, and retused to doff his 

clothes, 
Or go to bed, as sonietimes he will do 
When there is aught to chafe him Until 

past midnight. 
He waiider'd to and fro, then call'd the 

stranger, 
The gay young man, that sung such merry 

songs, 
Yet ever look'd most sadly whilst he sung 

them ; 
And forth they went together. 

Off, And you've seen 

Or heard nought of them since .' 

\SA. Seen surely nothing, and I cannot 

think 
That they have lot or share in what I heard. 
1 heard my mother praying, for the corpse- 
lights 
Were dancing on the waves; and at one 

o'clock, 
Just as the Abbey steeple toll'd the knell. 
There was a heavy plunge upon the waters, 
And some one cried aloud for mercy ! — 

mercy 1 
It was the water-spirit, sure, which prom- 
ised 
Mercy to boat and fishermen, if we 
Perform'd to day's rites duly. Let me go — 
1 am to lead the ring. 

Off. (to Ser). Detain her not. She 

cannot tell us more ; 
To give her liberty is tiie sure way 
To lure her parents homeward. ^Strahan, 

take two men, 
And should the father or the mother come, 
Arrest them both, or either. Auchindrane 
May come upon the beach ; arrest him 

also, 
But do not state a cause. I'll back again, 
And take directions from my Lord Dunbar. 
Keep you upon the beach, and have an eye 
To all that passes there. 

{Exeunt separately. 









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A UCHINDRANE, 5 2 \ 






SCENE II. 


Auch. Thou speakest frenzy, wheu 




S'^«M<r changes to a remote and rocky part 


sense is most required. 
Phi. Hear me yet more ! — I say I did J 






Ij of the Seabeach. 


J 






the deed 






Enter Auchindrane, meeting Philip. 


With all the coolness of a practiced hunter 






AucH. The devil's brought his legions to 


When dealing with a stag. I struck him 






this beach, 


overboard, 






That wont to be so lonely ; morions, lances, 


And with MacLellan's aid I held his head 






Show in the morning beam as thick as 


Under the waters, while the Ranger tied 






glowworms 


The weights we had provided to his feet. 






At summer midnight. 


We cast him loose when life and body 






Phi. I'm right glad to see them, 


parted, 






Be they whoe'er they may, so they are 


And bid him speed for Ireland. But even 






mortal ; 


then. 






For Pve contended with a lifeless foe, 


As in defiance of the words we spoke, 






And I have lost the battle. I would give 


The body rose upright behind our stern, 






A thousand crowns to hear a mortal steel 


One half in ocean, and one half in air, 






Ring on a mortal harness. 


And tided after as in chase of us. 






AucH. How now! art mad? or hast 


Auch. It was enchantment! — Did you 






thou done the turn — 


strike at it ? 






The turn we canie fcr, and must live or die 


Phi. Once and again. But blows avail'd 






by.? 


no more 






Phi. 'Tis done, if man can do it; but I 


Than on a wreath of smoke, where they 






doubt 


may break 






If this unhappy wretch have Heaven's per- 


The column for a moment, which unites 






mission 


And IS entire again. Thus the dead body 






To die by mortal hands. 


Sunk down before my oar, but rose unr 






AucH. Where is he? — where's Mac- 


harm'd, 






Lellan ? 


And dogg'd us closer still, as in defiance. 






Phi. In the deep- 


Auch. 'Twas Hell's own work ! 






Both m the deep, and what's immortal of 


Phi. MacLellan then grew restive 






them 


And, desperate in his fear, blasphemed 






Gone to the judgment-seat, where we must 


aloud. 






meet them. 


Cursing us both as authors of his ruin. 






AuCH. MacLellan dead, and Quentin 


Myself was well-nigh frantic while pursued 






too ? — So be it 


By this dread shape, upon whose ghastly 






To all that menace ill to Auchindrane, 


features 






Or have the power to injure ! — Thy words 


The changeful moonbeam spread a grisly 






Are full of comfort, but thine eye and 


light , 






look 


And, baited thus, I took the nearest way 






Have in this pallid gloom a ghastliness, 


To ensure his silence, and to quell his 






Which contradicts the tidings of thy 


noise ; 






tongue. 


I used my dagger, and I flung him over- 






Phi. Hear me, old man— There is a 


board. 






heaven above us, 


And half expected his dead carcass also 






As you have heard old Kno.K and Wishart 


Would join the chase— but he sank down at 






preach. 


once. 






Though little to your boot. The dreaded 


Auch. He had enough of mortal sin 






witness 


about him. 






Is slain, and silent. But his misused 


To sink an argosy. 






body 


Phi. But now resolve you what defence 






Comes right ashore, as if to cry for venge- 


to make. 




t 


p ance , 


If Quentin's body shall be recognized; t^ 


1 




It rides the waters like a living thmg, 


For'tis ashore already ; and he bears 






Erect, as it he trode the waves which be^r 


Marks of my handiwork — so does Mac 






him. 


Lellan. 




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52 2 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 






Auch. The concourse thickens still — 


I, who have seen a thousand dead and 




Away, away 1 


dying 






We must avoid the multitude. 


Within a flight-shot square, will teach you 






^ IT/ieyrus/i out. 


how in war 


' 




Scene III. 


We look upon the corpse when life has 
left it. 






Scene changes to another pari of the Beach, 


\He goes to the back scene, and seems 






Children are seen dancing, and Vil- 


attempting to turn the body, which 






lagers looking on. Isabel seems to 


has come ashore with its face 






' take the management of the Dance. 


downwards. 






ViL. WoM. How well she queens it, the 


Will none of you come aid to turn the 






brave little maiden ! 


body? 






ViL. Ay, they all queen it from theii 


ISA. You're cowards all. — I'll help thee, 






very cradle, 


good old man. 






These willing slaves of haughty Auchin- 


\She goes to aid the Sergeant with 






drane. 


the body, and presently gives a 






But now I hear the old man's reign is 


cry, and faints. Hildebrand 






ended ; — 


comes forward. All crowd round 






'Tis well — he has been tyrant long enough. 


him ; he speaks with an expres- 






Second Vil. Finlay, speak low — you 


sion of horror. 






interrupt the sports. 


Ser. 'Tis Quentin Blane 1 Poor youth, 






Third Vil. Look out to sea — There's 


his gloomy bodings 






something coming yonder. 


Have been the prologue to an act of dark 






Bound for the beach, will scare us from 


ness ; 






our mirth. 


His feet are manacled, his bosom stabb'd. 






Fourth Vil. Pshaw ! it is but a sea- 


And he is foully murder'd. The proud 






gull on the wing. 


Knight 






Between the wave and sky. 


And his dark Ranger must have done this 






Third Vil. Thou art a fool. 


deed, 






Standing on solid land — 'tis a dead body. 


For which no common ruffian could have 






Second Vil. And if it be, he bears him 


motive. 






like a live one. 


A Pea. Caution were best, old man — 






Not prone and weltering, like a drowned 


Thou art a stranger. 






corpse. 


The Knight is great and powerful. 






But bolt erect, as if he trode the waters. 


Ser. Let it be so. 






And used them as his path. 


Call'd on by Heaven to stand forth an 






Fourth Vil. It is a merman. 


avenger. 






And nothing of this earth, alive or dead 


I will not blench for fear of mortal man. 






\^By degrees all the Dancers break off 


Have I not seen that when that innocent 






from their sport, and stand gazing 


Had placed her hands upon the murder'd 






to seaward, while an object, im- 


body. 






perfectly seen, drifts towards the 


His gaping wounds, that erst were soak'd 






Beach, and at length arrives 


with brine, 






among the rocks which border the 


Burst forth with blood as ruddy as the cloud 






tide. 


Which now the sun doth rise on ! 






Third Vil. Perhaps it is some wretch 


Pea. What of that? 






who needs assistance ; 


Ser; Nothing that can affect the inno- 






Jasper, make in and see. 


cent child. 






Second Vil. Not I, my friend ; 


But murder's guilt attaching to her father, 






E'en take the risk yourself, you'd put on 


Since the blood musters in the victim's 






others. 


veins 






[Hildebrand has entered, and 


At the approach of what holds lease from 






_ ^ heard the two last words. 


him s\ 


-i 




Ser. What, are you men ? 


Of all that parents can transmit to children. 






Fear ye to look on what you must be one 


-A-nd here comes one to whom I'll vouch 






day? 


the circumstance. 








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THE DOOM OF DEVOKGOIL. 



y>5^ Earl OF Dunbar enters -with Sol- 
diers and others^ having AuCHIN- 
DRANE and VnwAV prisoners. 

Dun. Fetter the young ruffian and his 

trait'rous father ! 

[ They are made secure. 
AucH. 'Twas a lord spoke it — I have 

known a knight, 
Sir George of Home, who had not dared 

to say so. 
Dun. "Tis Heaven, not I, decides upon 

your guilt. 
A harmless youth is traced within your 

power, 
Sleeps in your Ranger's house— his friend 

at midnight 
Is spirited away. Then lights are seen, 
And groans are heard, and corpses come 

ashore 
Mangled with daggers, while {to Phi.) 

your dagger wears 
The sanguine livery of recent slaughter : 
Here, too, the body of a murder'd victim 




(Whom none but you had interest to re- 
move). 
Bleeds on a child's approach, because 

the daughter 
Of one the abettor of the wicked deed;— 
All this, and other proofs corroborative, 
Call on us briefly to pronounce the doom 
We have in charge to utter. 

AucH. If my house perish, Heaven's 
will be done ! 
I wish not to survive it ; but, O Philip, 
Would one could pay the ransom for us 
both ! 
Phi. Father, 'tis fitter that we both 
should die, 
Leaving no heir behind. — The piety 
Of a bless'd saint, the morals of an 

anchorite, 
Could not atone thy dark hypocrisy, 
Or the wild profligacy I have practiced. 
Ruin'd our house, and shatter'd be our 

towers. 
And with them end the curse our sins have 
merited ! 



THE 



DOOM OF DEVORGOIL, 



Mr'^T^rfj^lh^n^"^ dramatic pieces was long since written, for the purpose of obliginE the late 
Th; ma,?ner in which^fh °^ *^' ■'^^''&'?' '^'\^"^^^' ^°' ^^""^ ^^e Author had a parti?u"aVregar^ 
mach"nerv Usfmn^Htoh.",'-"';-^"''!^^^^ of Devorgoil are intermixed with the supernatural 
k unfirforVeDresen atlnn T K''^''''n^'i'''K*"'^ "^^ production had other faults, which rendered 

shoiw btSd^o^sfm■lar attemnfi'' f'^/'^^'-'^ble, th^t the scenes, long condemned too blivion. 
they are printed in th^i^!i^ "f.'^/^^^V?': ^"''^ ' ^^<i ^^he felt .indifferent on the subject 
a separate form for thprn"''' ^''"\«?l'dou Hill and Macduffs Cross, and thrown off i, 
PoefkalWorks ' convenience of those who possess former editions of the Author's 

of which IS' G°allowav " ^T"."' °^^°'-g°^' ^f ^^V"^^'^ "" ^" °^^ Scottish tradition, the scene 
voted house! is sim iS'thaT of "™^^"PP°^^d to have occasioned the misfortunes of this de- 
age of Mr. Char es KirknatWrW ^^L'^-'d, Hemes o Hoddam Castle, who is the principal person- 
Border, vo .iv.p 307 I^r^entofs^Tf ■'"''• ''''"^ ''?"^,'^' '" '^"^ ^in^trelsy of the Scottish 
tower of Replmance Ii^ manv rn J H c;"'r l! ^"^ ''"''^''^^ singular monument called the 
who, forsins'^of i mdder deSion are oermh?; W superstitions allude to the fairies, or those 
they were termed by Dr Levd^n 'x^f.' • f'^ ° wander with the " rout that never rest," as 
lermea Dy Ur. Leydca. They imitate Imman labor and human amusements, but 







524 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



their toil is useless, and without any advantageous result '■ and their gayety is unsubstantial and 
hollow. The phantom of Lord Erick is supposed to be a spectre of this character 

The story of the Ghostly Barber is told in many countries : but the best narrative founded on 
the passage, is the tale called Stumme Liebe. among the legends of Musseus. I think it has been 
introduced upon the English stage in some pantomime, which was one objection to bringing it 
upon the scene a second time. 
Abbotsford, April 1S30. 

DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Oswald of Devorgoil, a decayed Scoitisk Baron. 

Leonard, a Ranger. 

DURWARD, a Palmer. 

Lancelot Blackthorn, a Companion 0/ Leonard, in love with Kaileen. 

GuLLCRAMMER, a co}iceited Student. 

CocKLEDEMOY ( •^^■^^^'''^i represented by Blackthorn and Flora. 
Spirit of Lord Erick of Devorgoil. 
Peasants, Shepherds, and Vassals of in/erior rank. 
Eleanor, TVife 0/ Oswald, descended 0/ obscure Parentage. 
Flora, Daughter of Oswald. 
Katleen, Ntece 0/ Eleanor. 



THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL, 



ACT L— Scene I. 

The Scene represents a wild a7id hilly, 
but not a mountainous Country ui a 
frontier district of Scotland. The flat 
scene exhibits the Castle of Devorgoil, 
decayed, and partly ruinous, situated 
upon a Lake, and connected with the 
land by a Drawbridge, ivhick is lowered. 
Time — Su n set. 

Flora enters from the Castle, looks 
timidly around, then comes forward 
and speaks. 
He is not here — those pleasures are not 

ours 
Which placid evening brings to all things 
else. 



The sun upon the lake is low, 

The wild birds hush their song, 
The htUs have evening's deepest glow, 

Yet Leonard tarries long 
Now all whom varied toil and care 

From home and love divide, 
In the calm sunset may repair 

Each to the loved one's side. 



The noble dame, on turret high, 

Who waits her gallant knight. 
Looks to the western beam to spy 

The flash of armor bright. 
The village maid, with hand on brow. 

The level ray to shade, 
Upon the footpath watches now 

For Colin's darkening plaid. 

Now to their mates the wild swans row- 
By day they swam apart ; — 

And to the thicket wanders slow 
The hind beside the hart. 

The vvoodlark at his partner's side. 
Twitters his closing song — 

All meet whom day and care divide, 
But Leonard tarries long. 

[Katleen has come out of the 

Castle -while Flor.\ was sing< 

ing, and speaks when the Song iS 

ended. 

Kat Ah, my dear coz ! — if that your 

mother's niece 

May so presume to call your father's 

daughter- 
All these fond things have got some home 
of comfort 







1 




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<• 1 •" 6 1 


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To 


THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 52 


5 




tempt the rovers back— the lady's 


In all but marrying a ruin'd baron, 




bower, 


When she could take her choice of honest 






J [, The shepherdess's hut, tlie wild swan's 


yeomen , 






I couch 


And now, to balance this ambitious error, \ 


* 




Among the rushes, even the lark's low 


She presses on her daughter's love the suit 






nest, 


Of one who hath no touch of nobleness 






Has that of promise which lures home a 


In manners, birth, or mind, to recommend 






lover, — 


him, — 






But we have nought of this. 


Sage Master Gullcrammer, the new-dubb'd 






Flo How call you, then, this castle of 


preacher 






my sire, 


Flo Do not name him, Katleen ! 






The towers of Devorwil ? 

Kat Dungeons for men, and palaces 


Kat. Ay, but I must, and with some 






gratitude 






for owls ; 


I said but now, I saw our last of fagots 






Yet no wise owl would change a farmer's 


Destined to diess our last of meals, but 






barn 


said not 






For yonder hungry hall — our latest mouse, 


That the repast consisted of choice 






Our last of mice, I tell you, has been found 


dainties. 






Starved in the pantry ; and the reverend 


Sent to our larder by that liberal suitor, 






spider, 


The kind Meichisedek 






Sole living tenant of the Baron's halls, 


Flo Were famishing the word 






Who, train'd to abstinence, lived a whole 


I'd famish ere I tasted them — the fop, 






summer 


The fool, the low-born, low-bred, pedant 






Upon a single fly, he's famish'd too ; 


co.xcomb 1 






The cat is in the kitchen-chimney, seated 


Kat. Tliere spoke the blood of long- 






Upon our last of fagots, destined soon 


descended sires ! 






To dress our last of suppers, and, poor 


My cottage wisdom ought to echo back,— 






soul, 


the snug parsonage ! the well-paid 






Is starved with cold, and mewling mad 


stipend ! 






with hunger. 


The yew-hedged garden ! bee-hives, pigs, 






Flo. D'ye mock our misery, Katleen ? 


and poultry ! 






Kat. No, but I am hysteric on the 


But, to speak honestly, the peasant Kat- 






subject. 


leen, 






So I must laugh or cry, and laughing's 


Valuing these good things justly, still 






lightest. 


would scorn 






Flo. Why stay you with us, then, my 


To wed, for such, the paltry Gullcrammer, 






merry cousin ? 


As much as Lady Flora. 






From you my sire can ask no filial duty. 


Flo. Mock me. not with a title, gentle 






Kat. No, thanks to Heaven ! 


cousin. 






No Noble in wide Scotland, rich or poor, 


Which poverty has made ridiculous. — 






Can claim an interest in the vulgar blood 


[ Trttmpcts far off. 






That dances in my veins ; and I might wed 


Hark ! they have broken up the weapon- 






A forester to-morrow, nothing fearing 


shawing ; 






The wrath of high-born kindred, and far 


The vassals are dismiss'd, and marching 






less 


homeward. 






That the dry bones of lead-1-app'd ancestors 


Kat. Comes your sire back to-night? 






Would clatter in their cerements at the 


Flo. He did propose 






tidings. 


To tarry for the banquet. This day only. 






Flo. My mother, too, would gladly see 


Summon'd as a king's tenant, he resumes 






you placed 


The right of rank his birth assigns to him, 






Beyond the verge of our unhappiness. 


And mingles with the proudest. 






Which, like a witch's circle, blights and 


Kat. To return 




< 


■^ r» taints 


To his domestic wretchedness to-morrow — •> p 






Whatever comes within it. 


I envy not the privilege. Let us go 






Kat. Ah ! my good aunt! 


To yonder height, and see the marksmeii 






She is a careful kinswoman, and prudent 


practice ; 




i 


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5 r J _5 






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;26 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



They shoot their match down in the dale 
beyond, 

Betwixt the Lowland and the Forest dis- 
trict, 

By ancient custom, for a tun of wine, 

Let us go and see which wins. 

Flo That were too forward. 

Kat. Why, you may drop the screen 
before your face, 

Which some chance breeze may happily blow 
aside 

Just when a youth of special note takes 
aim. 

It chanced even so that memorable morn- 
ing, 

When, nutting in the woods, we met young 
Leonard , — 

And in good time here comes his sturdy 
comrade. 

The rough Lance Blackthorn. 

Enter Lancelot Blackthorn, a 
Forester, with the Carcass of a Deer 
on hts back, and a Gu7i in his hand. 

Bla. Save you, damsels ! 

Kat. Godden, good yeoman. — Come you 

from the Weaponshaw ? 
Bla. Not I, indeed ; there lies the mark 
1 shot at 

YLays down the Deer. 
The time has been I had not miss'd the 

sport, 
Although Lord Nithsdale's self had wanted 

venison ; 
But this same mate of mine, young Leonard 

Dacre, 
Makes me do what he lists ; — he'll win the 

prize, though 
The Forest district will not lose its honor. 
And that is all I care for — (some shouts are 

heard). Hark ! they're at it. 
I'll go see the issue. 

Flo. Leave not here 

The produce of your hunting. 

Bla. But I must, though. 

This is his lair to-night, for Leonard Dacre 
Charged me to leave the stag at Devor- 

goii; 
Then show me quickly where to stow the 

quarry, 
And let me tc the sports — [more shots). 
Come, hasten damsels ! 
Flo. It is impossible — we dare not take it. 
Bla. There let it lie, then, and I'll wind 
my bugle, 



That all within these tottering walls may 

know 
That here lies venison, whoso likes to lift 
it. \^About to blow. 

Kat. {to Flo.) He will alarm your 
mother ; and, besides, 
Our Forest proverb teaches, that no ques- 
tion 
Should ask where venison comes from. 
Your careful mother, with her wonted pru- 
dence, 
Will hold its presence, plead its own apol- 
ogy.— 
Come, Blackthorn, I will show you where 
to stow it. 

yExettnt K.atlf.en and Black 
thorn into the Castle — more 
shoottttg — the7t a distant shout — 
Stragglers, armed in different 
ways, pass ox'er the stage, as if 
from the Weaponshaw. 
Flo. The prize is won ; that general 
shout proclaim'd it. 
The marksmen and the vassals are dispers- 
ing. ^ \^Shedraws back. 
First Vassal {a feasajit). Ay, ay,— 
'tis lost and won, — the Forest have it. 
'Tis they have all the luck on't. 

Second Vas. {a shepherd). Luck 
say'st thou, man ? 'Tis patience, skill, 
and cunning. 
Third Vas. 'Tis no such thing. — I 
had hit the mark precisely. 
But for this cursed flint ; and as I fired, 
A swallow cross'd mine eye too — Will you 

tell me 
That that was but a chance, mine honest 
shepherd 1 
First Vas. Ay, and last year, when 
Lancelot Blackthorn won it. 
Because my powder happen'd to be damp. 
Was there no luck in that ? — The worse luck 
mine. 
Sec. Vas. Still I say, 'twas not chance; 

it might be witchcraft. 
First Vas. Faith, not unlikely, neigh- 
bors ; for these foresters 
Do often haunt about this ruin'd castle. 
I've seen myself this spark, — Young Leon- 
ard Dacre, — 
Come stealing like a ghost ere break of 

day. 
And after sunset, too, along this path : 
And well you know the haunted towers of 

Devorgoil 
Have no good reputation in the land 



M 



f* 




THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



527 



Shep. That have they not. I've heard 
my fatlier say, 
Ghosts dance as lightly in its moonlight 

halls, 
As ever maiden did at Midsummer 
Upon the village-green. 

First Vas. Those that frequent such 
spirit-haunted ruins 
Must needs know more than simple Chris- 
tians do. — 
See, Lance this blessed moment leaves the 

castle, 
And comes to triumph o'er us. 

[Blackthorn enters from the Cas- 
tle, and comes forward ivhile they 
speak. 
Third Vas. A mighty triumph ! What 
is't after all, 
Except the driving of a piece of lead, — 
As learned Master Gullcrammer defined 

It,— 

Just through the middle of a painted board ? 

Black. And if he so define it, by your 

leave, 

Your learned Master Gullcrammer's an ass. 

Third Vas. {angrily). He is a preacher, 

huntsman, under favor. 
Sec. Vas. No quarrelling, neighbors — 
you may both be right. 



Enter a FOURTH Vassal, with a gallon 
stoiip of wine. 

Fourth Vas. Why stand you brawling 
here ? Young Leonard Dacre 

Has set abroach the tun of wine he gain'd 

That all may drink who list. Blackthorn, 
I sought you ; 

Your comrade prays you will bestow this 
flagon 

Where you have left the deer you kill'd this 
morning, 
Black. And that I will ; but first we will 
take toll 

To see if it's worth carriage. Shepherd, 
thy horn. 

There must be due allowance made for leak- 
age. 

And that will come about a draught apiece. 

.Skink it about, and, when our throats are 
liqitor'd, 

We'll merrily trowl our song of Weapon- 
shaw. 

\They drink about out of the Shep- 
herd's horn., and then sing. 



We love the shrill trumpet, we love the 

drum's rattle, 
They call us to sport, and they call us to 

battle; 
And old Scotland shall laugh at tlie threats 

of a stranger. 
While our comrades in pastime are com- 
rades in danger. 
If there's mirth in our house, 'tis our neigh- 
bor that shares it — 
If peril approach, 'tis our neighbor thai 

dares it ; 
And when we lead off to the pipe and the 

tabor. 
The fair hand we press is the hand of a 

neighber. 
Then close your ranks, comrades — the bands 

that combine them, 
Faith, friendship, and brotherhood, join'd 

to entwine them ; 
And we'll laugh at the threats of each in- 
solent stranger. 
While our comrades in sport are our com- 
rades in danger. 
Black. Well, I must do mine errand, 
Master flagon \^Sriaktng it. 

Is too consumptive for another bleeding. 
Shep. I must to my fold. 
Third Vas. I'll to the butt of wine. 
And see if that has given up the ghost 
yet. 
First V.^s. Have with you, neighbor. 
[Blackthorn enters the Castle, 
the rest exeunt severally. Mel- 
CHiSEDEK Gullcrammer 
watches them off the stage, and 
then enters from the side-scene. 
His costume is a Geneva cloak 
and band, zvith a high-crozvncd 
hat the rest of his dress t>l the 
. fashion of yames the First's time. 

He looks to the windozvs of the 
Castle, then draws back as if to 
esc ape observation, while he brushes 
his cloak, drives the while threads 
from his waistcoat with his wetted 
thumb, and dusts his shoes, alt 
with the air of one 7vho would not 
willingly be observed engaged m 
these offices. He then adjusts his 
collar and band, comes forward 
and speaks. 
Gull. Right comely is thy garb, Mel- 
chisedek ; 






528 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



As well beseemeth one, whom good Saint 

Mungo, 
The patron of our land and university, 
Hath graced with license both to teach and 

preach — 
Who dare opine thou hither plod'st on 

foot ? 
Trim sits thy cloak, unruffled is thy band, 
And not a speck upon thine outward man 
Bewrays the labors of thy weary sole. 

[ Touches Ins shoe, and smiles com- 
flacciiily. 
Ouaint was that jest and pleasant ! — Now 

will I 
Approach and hail the dwellers of this fort ; 
But specially sweet Flora Devorgoil, 
Ere her proud sire return. He loves me 

not, 
Mocketh my lineage, flouts at mine ad- 
vancement — 
Sour as the fruit the crab-tree furnishes, 
And hard as is the cudgel it supplies j 
But Flora — she's a lily on the lake, 
And I must reach her, though I risk a 
ducking. 

\As GuLLC RAMMER moves iomards 
the drawbridge, Bauldie Dur- 
WARD enters, and interposes him- 
self betwixt him and the Castle. 
Gullcrammer stops and speaks. 
Wliom have we here.''— that ancient for 

tune-teller. 
Papist and sorcerer, and sturdy beggar, 
Old Bauldie Durward ! Would I were well 
past him ! 

[Durward advances, partly in the 

dress of a palmer, partly in that 

of an old Scottish mendicant. 

having coarse blue cloak and 

badge, white beard, &'c. 

DuR. The blessing of the evening on 

your worship, 

And on your taff'ty doublet. Much I 

marvel 
YouT wisdom chooseth such grim garb, 

when tempests 
Are gathering to tlie bursting. 
Gullcrammer (looks to hts dress, and 
then to the sky, with some appre- 
hension). Surely, Bauldie, 
Thou dost belie the evening — in the west 
The light sinks down as lovely as this band 
Drops o'er this mantle— Tush, man ! 'twill 
be fair. 
Dur Ay, but the storm I bode is big 
with blows, 



Horsewhips for hailstones, clubs for 

thunderbolts ; 
And for the wailing of the midnight wind. 

The unpjtied howling of a cudgell'd cox- 
comb. 

Come, come, I know thou seek'st fair 
Flora Devorgoil. 
GuL. And if I did, I do the damsel 
grace. 

Her mother thinks so, and she lias ac- 
cepted 

At these poor hands gifts of some conse- 
quence. 

And curious dainties for the evening cheer, 

To which I am invited — she respects me. 
Dur. But not so doth her father, 
haughty Oswald. 

Bethink thee, he's a baron 

GuL. And a bare one ; 

Construe me that, old man ! — The crofts 
of Mucklewhame — 

Destined for mine so soon as heaven and 
earth 

Have shared my uncle's soul and bones 
between them — 

The crofts of Mucklewhame, old man, 
which nourish 

Three scores of sheep, three cows, with 
each her follower, 

A female palfrey eke — I will be candid. 

.She is of that meek tribe whom, in derision, 

Our wealthy southern neighbors nickname 

donkeys 

Dur. She hath her follower too, — when 

thou art there. 
GuL. I say to thee, these crofts of 
Mucklewhame, 

In the mere tything of their stock and pro- 
duce, 

Outvie whatever patch of land remains 

To this old rugged castle and its owner. 

Well, therefore, may Melchisedek Gull- 
crammer [me, 

Younger of Mucklewhame, for such I write 

Master of Arts, by grace of good Saint 
Andrew, 

Preacher, in brief expectance of a kirk, 

Endow'd with ten score Scottish pounds 
per annum. 

Being eight pounds seventeen eight in 
sterling coin — 

Well then, I say, may this Melchisedek, 

Thus highly graced by fortune — and by 
nature 

E'en gifted as thou seest — aspire to woo 

The daughter of the beggar 'd Devorgoil. 




-f-* 





THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



529 



DuR. Credit an old man's word, kind 

Master GuUcrammer, 
Vou will not find it so. — Come, Sir, I've 

known 
The hospitality of Mucklewhame ; 
It reach'd not to profuseness — j'et, in 

gratitude 
For the pure water of its living well, 
And for the Barley loaves of its fair fields, 
Wherein chopp'd straw contended with 

the grain 
"Which best should satisfy the appetite, 
I would not see the hopeful heir of Muck- 
lewhame 
Thus fiing himself in danger. 

GuL. Danger! what Danger! — Know'st 
thou not old Oswald 
This day attends the muster of the shire, 
Where the crown-vassals meet to show 

their arms, 
And their best horse of service ? 'Twas 

good sport 
(And if a man had dared but laugh at it) 
To see old Oswald with his rusty morion, 
And huge two-handed sword, that might 

have see 
The field of Bannockburn or Chevy-Chase, 
Without a squire or vassal, page or groom, 
Or e'en a single pikeman at his heels. 
Mix with the proudest nobles of the county, 
And claim precedence for his tatter'd per- 
son 
O'er armors double gilt and ostrich-plum- 
age. 

DuR. Ay ! 'twas the jest at which fools 

laugh the loudest. 
The downfall of our old nobility — 
Which may forerun the ruin of a king- 
dom. 
I've seen an idiot clap his hands, and 

shout 
To see a tower like you (potnts to a fart 

of the Castled stoop to its base 
In headlong ruin , while the wise look'd 

round. 
And fearful sought a distant stance to 

watch 
What fragment of the fabric next should 

follow ; 
For when the turrets fall, the walls are 

tottering 
GUL. (after pondering). If that means 

aught, It means thou saw'st old 

Oswald 
Expell'd from the assembly. 



DuR. Thy sharp wit 

Hath glanced unwittingly right nigh the 
truth. 

Expell'd he was not, but, his claim de- 
nied 

At some contested point of ceremony, 

He left the weaponshaw in high displeas 
ure, 

And hither comes — his wonted bitter tem- 
per 

Scarce sweeten'd by the chances of the 
day. 

'Twere much like rashness should you 
wait his coming. 

And tliither tends my counsel. 

GuL. And I'll take it ; 

Good Bauldie Durward, I will take thy 
counsel. 

And will requite it with this minted farth- 
ing, 

That bears our sovereign's head in purest 
copper. 
DuR. Thanks to thy bounty — Haste 
thee, good young master ; 

Oswald, besides the old two-handed sword, 

Bears in his hand a staff of potency. 

To charm intruders from his castle pur- 
lieus. 
GUL. I do abhor all charms, nor will 
abide 

To hear or see, far less to feel their use. 

Behold, 1 have departed. \^Extt hastily. 

Manet Durward. 

DuR. Thus do I play the idle part of 

one 
Who seeks to save the moth from scorching 

him 
In the bright taper's flame — and Flora's 

beauty 
Must, not unlike that taper, waste away, 
Guilding the rugged walls that saw it kin- 
dled. 
This was a shard-born, beetle, heavy, 

drossy. 
Though boasting his dull drone and guilded 

wing. 
Here comes a flutterer of another stamp, 
Whom the same ray is charming to his 

ruin. 

Enter Leonard, dressed as a huntsman , 
he paiist before the Tozvcr, and whis- 
tles a note or two at intcrx'als — drawing 
back, as if fearful of observation — yet 
■watting as if expecting some reply — 




M. 



V 




530 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



DuRWARD, whom he had not observed, 
moves round, so as to front Leonard 
unexpectedly . 

Leon. I am too late — it was no easy 
task 
To rid myself from yonder noisy revellers. 
Flora ! — -1 fear she's angry — Flora — Flora 1 

SONG. 

Admire not that I gain'd the prize 

From all the village crew ; 
How could I fail with hand or eyes, 

When heart and faith were true ! 

And when in floods of rosy wine 
My comrades drown'd their cares, 

I thought but that thy heart was mine, 
My own leapt light as theirs. 

My brief delay then do not blame, 
Nor deem your swain untrue ; 

My form but linger'd at the game, 
My soul was still with you. 

She hears not ! 

DuR. But a friend hath heard — Leon- 
ard, I pity thee. 
Leon, (starts, but recovers himself). 

Pity, good father, is for those in want, 
In age, in sorrow, in distress of mind. 
Or agony of body. I'm in health- 
Can match my limbs against the stag in 

chase, 
Have means enough to meet my simple 

wants. 
And am so free of soul that I can carol 
To woodland and to wild in notes as lively 
As are my jolly bugle's. 

DuR. Even therefore dost thou need my 

pity, Leonard, 
And therefore I bestow it, praying thee, 
Before thou feel'st the need, my mite of 

pity. 
Leonard, thou lovest ; and in that little 

word 
There lies enough to claim the sympathy 
Of men who wear such hoary locks as mine, 
And know what misplaced love is sure to 

end in. 
Leon. Good father, thou art old, and 

even thy youth, 
As thou hast told me, spent in cloister'd 

cells. 
Fits thee but ill to judge the passions 
Which are the joy and charm of social life. 
Press rae no farther, then, nor waste those 

moments 



Whose worth thou canst not estimate. 

\^As turning from hinu 

DuR. {detains him). Stay, young man ! 

'Tis seldom that a beggar claims a debt; 

Yet I bethink me of a gay young stripling, 

That owes to these white locks and hoary 

beard 
Something of reverence and of gratitude 
More than he wills to pay. 
Leon. Forgive me, father. Often hast 
thou told me, 
That in the ruin of my father's house 
You saved the orphan Leonard in his 

cradle ; 
And well I know, that to thy care alone — 
Care seconded by means beyond thy seem- 
ing— 
I owe whate'er of nurture I can boast. 

DuR. Then for thy life preserved, 
And for the means of knowledge I have 

furnish'd 
(Which lacking, man is levell'd with the 

brutes). 
Grant me this boon : — Avoid these fated 

walls ! 
A curse is on them, bitter, deep, and 

heavy, 
Of power to split the massiest tower they 

boast 
From pinnacle to dungeon vault. It rose 
Upon tlie gay horizon of proud Devorgoil, 
As unregarded as the fleecy cloud. 
The first forerunner of the hurricane. 
Scarce seen amid the welkin's shadeless 

blue, 
Dark grew it, and more dark, and still the 

fortunes 
Of this doom'd family have darken'dwith 

it. 
It hid their sovereign's favor, and obscured 
The lustre of their service, gender'd hate 
Betwixt them and the mighty of the land ; 
Till by degrees the waxing tempest rose, 
And stripp'd the goodly tree of fruit and 

flowers, 
And buds, and boughs, and branches. 

There remains 
A rugged trunk, dismember'd and un- 
sightly, 
Waiting the bursting of the final bolt 
To splinter it to shivers. Now, go pluck 
Its single tendril to enwreath thy brow, 
And rest beneath its shade — to share the 
ruin ! 
Leon. This anathema. 
Whence should it come ? — How merited \ 
and when '> 







THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



531 



DuR. 'Twas in the days 

Of Oswald's grandsire, — 'mid Galwegian 
chiefs 

The fellest foe, the fiercest champion. 

His blood-red pennons scared the Cum 
brian coasts, 

And wasted towns and manors mark'd his 
progress 

His galleys stored with treasure, and their 
decks 

Crowded with English captives, who be- 
held. 

With weeping eyes, their native shores re- 
tire, 

He bore him homeward , but a tempest 

rose 

Leon. So far I've heard the tale. 

And spare thee the recital, — The grim 
chief, 

Marking his vessels labor on the sea, 

And loth to lose his treasure, gave com 
mand 

To plunge his captives in the raging deep. 
DuR. There sunk the lineage of a noble 
name, 

And the wild waves boom'd over sire and 
son. 

Mother and nursling, of the House of 
Aglionby, 

Leaving but one frail tendril. — Hence the 
fate 

That hovers o'er these turrets, — hence the 
peasant, 

Belated, hying homewards, dreads to cast 

A glance upon that portal, lest he see 

The unshrouded spectres of the murder'd 
dead ; 

Or the avenging Angel, with his sword. 

Waving destruction ; or the grisly phan- 
tom 

Of that fell Chief, the doer of the deed. 

Which still, they say, roams through his 
empty halls, 

And mourns their wasteness and their 
lonelihood. 
Leon. Such is the dotage 

Of superstition, father, — ay, and the cant 

Of hoodwink'd prejudice. Not for atone- 
ment 

Of some foul deed done in the ancient war- 
fare. 

When war was butchery, and men were 
wolves. 

Doth Heaven consign the innocent to suf 
fering. 

I tell thee, Flora's virtues might atone 



For all the massacres her sires have done 
Since first the Pictish race their stained 

limbs 
Array'd in wolf's skin 

DuR. Leonard, ere yet this beggar's 

scrip and cloak 
Supplied the place of mitre and of crosier, 
Which in these alter'd lands must not be 

worn, 
I was superior of a brotherhood 
Of holy men, — the Prior of Lanercost. 
Nobles then sought my footstool many a 

league. 
There to unload their sins — questions of 

conscience 
Of deepest import were not deeni'd too nice 
For my decision, youth. But not even then, 
With mitre on my brow, and all the voice 
Which Rome gives to a father of her church. 
Dared I pronounce so boldly on the ways 
Of hidden Providence, as thou, young man, 
Whose chiefest knowledge is to track a 

stag, 
Or wind a bugle, hast presumed to do. 

Leon Nay, I pray forgive me, 
Father ; thou know'st I meant not to pre- 
sume 

DuR. Can 1 refuse thee pardon ? — Tliou 

art all 
That war and change have left to the poor 

Durward 
Thy father, too, who lost his life and for- 
tune 
Defending Lanercost, when its fair aisles 
Were spoil'd by sacrilege — I bless'd his 

banner, 
And yet it prosper'd not. But — all I 

could — 
Thee from the wreck I saved, and for thy 

sake 
Have still dragg'd on my life of pilgrimage 
And penitence upon the hated shores 
1 else had left forever. Comewitl^ me. 
And I will teach thee there is healing in 
The wounds which friendship gives. 

\Exeiint 

Scene H. 
The Scene changes to the Interior of the 
Castle. An apartment is discovered, in 
which there is much appearance of pres- 
ent poverty, mixed ivith some relics oj 
former grandcitr. On the wall hangs^ 
amongst other things, a suit of ancient 
armor : by the table is a covered basket \ 
behind, and concealed by it, tht carcas? 




-t-J 



532 



SCOTT'S FOE7VCAL WORKS. 



of a roe-deer. There ts a small latticed 
■window, -which, appearing to per/orate 
a wall of great thickness, is supposed to 
look out towards the drawbridge. It is 
in the shape of a loop-hole for musketry; 
and, as is not unusual in old buildings, 
is placed so high up m the wall, that it 
is only approached by five or six narrow 
stone steps. 

Eleanor, the ivife <?/" Oswald o/Devor- 
GOiL, Flora and Katleen, her 
Daughter and Niece, are discovered at 
work. The former spins, the latter are 
embroideri7ig. Eleanor quits her own 
labor to examine the manner iti which 
Flora is executing her task, and shakes 
her head as if dissatisfied, 

Ele. Fy on it, Flora ! — this botch'd 

work of thine 
Shows that thy mind is distant from thy 

task. 
The finest tracery of our old cathedral 
Had not a richer, freer, bolder pattern, 
Than Flora once could trace. Thy thoughts 

are wandering. 
Flo. They're with my father. Broad 

upon the lake 
The evening sun sunk down ; huge piles of 

clouds, 
Crimson and sable, rose upon his disk, 
And quench'd him ere his setting, like some 

champion 
In his last conflict, losing all his glory. 
Sure signals those of storm. And if my 

father 

Be on his homeward road 

Ele. But that he will not. 

Baron of Devorgoil, this day at least 
He banquets with the nobles — who, the 

next. 
Would scarce vouchsafe an alms to save his 

household 
From want or famine. Thanks to a kind 

friend. 
For one brief space we shall not need their 

aid. 
Flo. [ioyfully). What ! knew you then 

his gift? 
How silly I that would, yet durst not tell it t 
I fear my father will condemn us both, 
That easily accepted such a present. 
Kat. Now, here's the game a bystander 

sees better 
Than those who play it. — My good aunt is 

pondering 



On the good cheer which Gullcrammer has 

sent us, 
And Flora thinks upon the forest venison, 

{Aside. 
Ele. (to Flo.) Thy father need not 
know on't — 'tis a boon 
Comes tmiely, when frugality,— nay, ab- 

stmence, 
Might scarce avail us longer. I had hoped 
Ere now a visit from the youthful donor, 
That we might thank his bounty ; and per- 
haps 
My Flora thought the same, when Sunday's 

kerchief 
And the best kirtle were sought out, and 

donn'd 
To grace a work-day evening. 
Flo. Nay, mother, that is judging all too 
close ! 
My work-day gown was torn— my kerchief 

sullied J 
And thus— But, think you, will the gallant 
come ? 
Ele. He will, for with these dainties 
came a message 
From gentle Master Gullcrammer, to in- 
timate 

Flo. {greatly disappointed). Gullcram- 
mer.'' 
Kat. There burst the bubble— down fell 
house of cards, 
And cousin's like to cry for't 1 ^Aside. 

Ele. Gullcrammer ! ay, Gullcrammer ; 
thou scorn 'st not at him ? 
'Twere something short of wisdom in a 

maiden. 
Who, like the poor bat in the Grecian 

fable. 
Hovers betwixt two classes in the world, 
And is disclaim'd by both the mouse and 
bird. 
Kat. I am the poor mouse. 

And may go creep into what hole 1 list, 
And no one heed me — Yet I'll waste a word 
Of counsel on my betters. — Kind my aunt, 
And you, my gentle cousin, were't not 

better 
We thought of dressing this same gear for 

supper, 
Than quarrelling about the worthless 
donor .'' 
Ele. Peace, minx ! 

Flo. Thou hast no feeling, cousin Kat- 
leen. 
Kat. So! I have brought them both on 
my poor shoulders : 









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'' . ." ^1 . h^ 






fk ^ 


fiH 




^^ 




xX 




X, 




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S( 


T//£ DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 533 






) meddling peace-makers are still re- 


Rather than thus nis suit should goad me 




warded : 


—Mother, 






E'en let them to't again, and fight it out. 


Flora of Devorgoil, though low in for- 






Flo, Mother, were I disclaim'd of every 


tunes, *^ ^ 






class, 


Is still too high in mind to join her name 






I would not therefore so disclaim myself, 


With such a base-born chuj-1 as GuUcram- 






As even a passing thought of scorn to 


mer. 






waste 


Ele. You are trim maidens both ! 






On cloddish GuUcrammer, 


( To Flora.) Have you forgotten. 






Ele. List to me, love, and let adversity 


Or did you mean to call to tny remem- 






Incline thine ear to wisdom. Look around 


brance 






thee — 


Thy father chose a wife of peasant blood ? 






Of the gay youths who boast a noble name, 


Flo. Will you speak thus to me, or think 






Which will incline to wed a dowerless 


the stream 






damsel ? 


Can mock the fountain it derives its source 






And of the yeomanry, who, think'st thou, 


from ? 






Flora, 


My venerated mother ! — in that name 






Would ask to share the labors of his farm 


Lies all on earth a child should chiefest 






And hi:;h-born beggar?— This young man 


honor ; 






is modest 


And with that name to mix reproach or 






Flo. Silly, good mother; sheepish, if 


taunt, 






you will it. 


Were only short of blasphemy to Heaven. 






Ele. E'en call it what you list — the softer 


Ele. Then listen. Flora, to that mother's 






temper, 


counsel, 






The fitter to endure the bitter sallies 


Or rather profit by that mother's fate. 






Of one whose wit is all too sharp for mine. 


Your father's fortunes were but bent, not 






Flo. Mother, you cannot mean it as you 


broken, 






say; 


Until he listen'dto his rash affection. 






You cannot bid me prize conceited folly ? 


Means were afforded to redeem his house. 






Ele. Content thee, child — each lot has 


Ample and large — the hand of a rich 






its own blessings. 


heiress 






This youth, with his plain-dealing honest 


Awaited, almost courted, his acceptance ; 






suit, 


He saw my beauty — such it then was 






Proffers thee quiet, peace, and competence, 


call'd. 






Redemption from a home, o'er which fell 


Or such at least he thought it— the wither'd 






Fate 


bush. 






Stoops like a falcon. — Oh ! if thou couldst 


Whate'er it now may seem, had blossoms 






choose 


then, — 






(As no such choice is given) 'twixt such a 


And he forsook the proud and wealthy 






mate 


heiress, 






And some proud noble ! — Who, in sober 


To wed with me and ruin — 






judgment. 


Kat. (aside). The more fool, 






Would like to navigate the heady river. 


Say I, apart, the peasant maiden then. 






Dashing in fury from its parent mountain. 


Who might have chose a mate from her own 






More than the waters of the quiet lake .'' 


hamlet. 






Kat. Now can I hold no longer — Lake, 


Ele. Friends fell off. 






good aunt ? 


And to his own resources, his own coim- 






Nay, in the name of truth, say mill-pond, 


sels. 






horse-pond ; 


.\bandon'd, as they said, the thoughtless 






Or if there be a pond more miry. 


prodigal. 






More sluggish, mean-derived, and base than 


Who had exchanged rank, riches, pomp, and 






either, 


honor. 






p Be such Gullcrammer's emblem — and his 


For the mean beauties of a cottage maid. 






portion ! 


Flo. It was done like my father, 






Flo. I would that he or I were in our 


Who scorn'd to sell what wealth can never 






grave, 


buy— 








c 1 •> r 1 1 






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<• 1 •) 


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Xx 




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534 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 


IS 




True love and free affections And he 


Ele. Besides, since that our state w: 




loves you ! 


utter desperate. 






If you have suffer'd in a weary world, 


Darker his brow, more dangerous grow 






Your sorrows have been jointly borne, and 


his words ; 






love 


Fain would I snatch thee from the woe 






Has made the load sit lighter. 


and wrath 






Ele. Ay, but a misplaced match hath 


Which darken'd long my life, and soon 






that deep curse in't. 


must end it. 






That can embitter e'en the purest streams 


\A knocking -without; Eleanor 






Of true affection. Thou hast seen me 


shows alarm. 






seek, 


It was thy father's knock, — haste to the 






With the strict caution early habits taught 


gate. 






me. 


\Excitni Flora and Katleen 






To match our wants and means — hast 


What can liave happ'd.'— he thought to 






seen thy father. 


stay the night. 






With anrtocracy's high brow of scorn, 


This gear must not be seen. 






Spurn at economy, the cottage virtue, 


\As she ts aboii-t to remove the bas- 






As best befitting her whose sires were 


ket, she sees the body of the roe- 






peasants : 


deer. 






Nor can I, when I see my lineage scorn'd 


What have we here ? a roe-deer ! — as I 






Always conceal in what contempt I hold 


fear it. 






The fancied claims of rank he clings to 


This was the gift of which poor Flora 






fondly. 


thought. 






Flo. Why will you do so — well you 


The young and handsome hunter But 






know it chafes him. 


time presses. 






Ele. Flora, thy mother is but mortal 


\^She removes the basket and the roe 






woman. 


into a closet. As she has done — 






Nor can at all times check an eager 
tongue. 


Enter Oswald of Devorgoil, Flora, 






K.\T. (aside). That's no new tidings to 


and Katleen. 






her niece and daughter. 


'iHe is dressed in a scarlet cloak, 






Ele. may'st thou never know the 


zi'htch should seem worn and old 






spited feelings 


— a head-piece, and old-fashioned 






That genders discord in adversity 


sword — the rest of his dress that 






Betwixt the dearest friends and truest 


of a peasant. His cottntenancc 






lovers ! 


and manner should express the 






In the chill damping gale of poverty, 


moody and irritable haughtiness 






If Love's lamp go not out, it gleams but 


of a proud man involved in 






palely, 


calajnity, and who has been ex- 






And twinkles in the socket. 


posed to recent insult. 






Flo. But tenderness can screen it with 


Osw. [addressing his wife) — 






her veil. 


The sun hath set — why is the drawbridge 






Till it revive again. By gentleness, good 


lower'd ^ 






mother. 


Ele. The counterpoise has faii'd. and 






How oft I've seen you soothe my father's 


Flora's strength. 






mood ! 


Katleen's, and mine united, could not 






K.\T. Now there speak youthful hope 


raise it. 






and fantasy ! [^Aside. 


Osw. Flora and thou I a goodly garri- 






Ele. That is an easier task m youth 


son 






than age ; 


To hold a castle, which, if fame says true, 






Our temper hardens, and our charms 


Once foiled the King of Norse and all his 






decay. 


rovers. 






, n .^nd both are needed in that art of 


Ele. It might be so in ancient times. t\ 


> 




soothing. 


but now 






Kat. And there speaks sad experience. 


Osw. .A^ herd of deer might storm jiroud 






[Aside. 


Devorgoil. 








C_4 5 


f 


M" 


ii 


' 




vi| - 


C^. : 


i 


^ 


^ 






1 




THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



535 



Kat. {aside fo F1.0.) You, Flora, know | 

full well, one deer already j 

Has e-nter'd at the breach ; and, what is 1 

worse, I 

The escort is not yet march'd oft, for I 

Blaclvthorn 
Is still within the castle. 

Flo. In heaven's name, rid him out 

on't, ere my father 
Discovers he is here I Why went he not 

before ? 
K.'VT. Because 1 staid him on some 

little business ; 
I had a plan to scare poor paltry Gull 

crammer 
Out of his paltry wits. 

Flo. Well, haste ye now 

And try to get him off. 

Kat. I will not promise that. 

1 would not turn an honest hunter's dog, 
So well I love the woodcraft, out of shelter 
In such a night as this, far less his master •. 
But I'll do this,— I'll try to hide him for 

you. 
Osw. {whom his wife has assisted to 

take off his cloak and f lathered cap) — 
Ay, take them off. and bring my peasant's 

bonnet 
.\nd peasant's plaid — I'll noble it no 

further. 
Let them erase my name from honor's 

lists, 
And drag my scutcheon at their horses' 

heels : 
I have deserved it all, for I am poor. 
And poverty hath neither right of birth, 
Nor rank, relation, claim, nor privilege, 
To match a new-com'd viscount, whose 

good-grandsire, 
The lord be with him, was a careful 

skipper, 
And steer'd his paltry skiff 'twixt Leith 

and Campvere — 
Marry, sir, he could buy Geneva cheap. 
And knew the coast by moonlight. 

Flo Mean you the Viscount Ellon- 

dale, my father ? 
What strife has been between you ? 

Osw. O, a trifle ! 

Not worth a wise man's thinking twice 

about ; — 
Precedence is a toy — a superstition 
.\bout a table's end, joint-stool, and 

trencher. 
Something wras once thought due to long 

descent. 



<:— V- 



And something to Galwegia's oldest 

baron, — 
But let that pass — a dream of the old time. 
Ele. It is indeed a dream. 
Osw. (turning upon her rather 
quickly) — 
Ha! said ye.' — let me hear these words 

more plain. 
Ele, Alas ! they are but echoes of 

your own. 
Match'd with the real woes that hover 

o'er us, 
What are the idle visions of precedence, 
But, as you term them, dreams, and toys, 

and trifles, 
Not worth a wise man's thinking twice 

upon ? 
Osw. Ay, 'twas for you I framed and 

consolatfon. 
The true philosophy of clouted shoe 
.\nd linsey-woolsey kirtle. I know, that 

minds 
Of nobler stamp receive no dearer motive 
Than what is link'd with honor. Ribbons, 

tassels. 
Which are but shreds of silk and spangled 

tinsel — 
The right of place, which m itself is mo- 
mentary — 
A word, which is but air — may in them- 
selves. 
And to the nobler file, be steep'd so 

richly 
In that elixir, honor, that the lack 
Of things so very trivial in themselves 
Shall be misfortune. One shall seek for 

them 
O'er the wild waves — one in the deadly 

breach 
And battle's headlong front — one in the 

paths 
Ot midnight study, — and, in gaining these 
Emblems of honor, each will hold him 

self 
•Repaid for all his labors, deeds, that 

dangers. 
What then should he think, knowing them 

his own, 
Who sees what warriors and what sages 

toil tor. 
The formal and establish'd marks of 

honor, 
Usurp'd from him by upstart insolence ' 
Ele. (who has listened to the last speech 
with some impatience') — 
I This is but empty declamation, Oswald. 






536 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The fragments left at yonder full-spread 

banquet, 
Nay, even the poorest crust swept from the 

table, 
Ought to be far more precious to a father, 
Whose family lacks food, than the vain 

boast. 
He sate at the board-head. 

Osw. Thou'lt drive me frantic ! — I will 

tell thee, woman — 
Yet why to thee ? There is another ear 
Which that tale better suits, and he shall 

hear it. 

\Looks at his s'lvord, which he has 
unbjickled, and addresses the rest 
of the speech to it. 
Ves, trusty friend, my father knew thy 

worth, 
And often proved it — often told me of it. 
Though thou and 1 be now held lightly of, 
And want the gilded hatchments of the 

time, 
I think we both may prove true metal still. 
'Tis thou shalt tell this story, right this 

wrong : 
Rest thou till time is fitting. 

\Ha7tgs up the sword. 
\_The Women look at each other 
with anxiety during this speech, 
zvhich they partly overhear. They 
both approach Oswald. 
Ele. Oswald, my dearest husband ! 
Flo. My dear father ! 

Osw. Peace, both ! — we speak no more 
of this. I go 
To heave the draw-bridge up. \Exit. 

Katleen mounts the steps towards the 
loop-hole, looks out, and speaks. 

Kat. The storm is gathering fast ; broad, 
heavy drops 
Fall plashing on the bosom of the lake. 
And dabh its inky surface into circles ; 
The distant hills are hid in wreaths of dark- 
ness. 
Twill be a fearful night. 

Oswald re-enters, and throws himself 
into a seat. 
Ele. ' More dark and dreadful 

Than is our destiny, it cannot be. 
Osw. {to Flo.) Such is Heaven's will — 
it is our part to bear it. 
We're warranted, my child, from ancient 
story 



And blessed writ, to say, that song assuages 
The gloomy cares that prey upon our reason, 
And wake a strife betwixt our better feelings 
And the fierce dictates of the headlong pas- 
sions. 

Sing, then, my love ; for if a voice have in- 
fluence 
To mediate peace betwixt me and my 

destiny. 
Flora, it must be thine. 

Flo. My best to please you ! 

SONG. 

When the tempest's at the loudest, 

On its gale the eagle rides ; 
When the ocean rolls the proudest. 

Through the foam the sea-bird glides — 
All the range of wind and sea 
Is subdued by constancy. 

Gnawing want and sickness pining. 

All the ills that men endure ; 
Each their various pangs combining, 

Constancy can find a cure — 
Pain, and Fear, and Poverty, 
Are subdued by constancy. 

Bar me from each wonted pleasure. 
Make me abject, mean, and poor; 

Heap on insults without measure, 
Chain me to a dungeon floor — 

I'll be happy, rich, and free, 

If endow'd with constancy. 

ACT II.— Scene I. 

A Chamber in a distant pat-t of the Castle. 
A large Windo-w in the flat scejie, sup- 
posed to look on the Lake, which is oc- 
casionally illuminated by lightning. 
There is a couch-bed in the room, and an 
antique cabinet. 

Enter Katleen, introducing Black- 
thorn. 

Kat. This was the destined scene of 
action. Blackthorn, 
And here our properties. But all in vain. 
For of GuUcrammer we'll see naught to- 
night. 
Except the dainties that I told you of. 
Bla. O, if he's left that same hog's face 
and sausages, 
He will try back upon them, never fear it. 
The cur will open on the trail of bacon. 
Like my old brach-hound. 
Kat. And should that hap, we'U play 
our comedy. 







THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 




537 



Shall we not, Blackthorn ? Thou shalt be 

Owlspiegle — 

Bla. And who may that hard-named per- 
son be ? 
Kat. I've told you nine times over. 
Bla. Yes, pretty Katleen, but my eyes 
were' busy 
In looking at you all the time you were 

talking ; 
And so 1 lost the tale. 
Kat. Then shut your eyes, and let your 
goQ.dly ears 
Do their good office. 

Bla. That were too hard penance. 

Tell but thy tale once more, and I will 

hearken 
As if I were thrown out, and listening for 
My blood-hound's distant bay. 

Kat. a civil simile ! 

Then, for the tenth time, and the last, — 

be told, 
Owlspiegle was of old the wicked barber 
To Erick, wicked Lord of Devorgoil. 
Bla. The chief who drown'd his captives 
in the Solway ? 
We all have heard of him. 

Kat. a hermit hoar, a venerable man — 
So goes the legend — came to wake repent- 
ance 
In the fierce lord, and tax'd him with his 

guilt ; 
But he, heart-harden'd, turn'd into derision 
The man of heaven, and, as iiis dignity 
Consisted much in a long reverend beard. 
Which reach'd his girdle, Erick caused his 

barber. 
This same Owlspiegle, violate its honors 
With sacrilegious razor, and clip his hair 
After the fashion of a roguish fool. 

Bla. This was reversing of our ancient 
proverb, 
And shaving for the devil's, not for God's 
sake. 
Kat. True, most grave Blackthorn ; and 
in punishment 
Of this foul act of scorn, the barber's ghost 
Is said to have no resting after death, 
But haunts these halls, and chiefly this same 

chamber. 
Where the profanity was acted, trimming 
And clipping all such guests as sleep with- 
in it. 
Such is at least the tale our elders tell. 
With many others, of this haunted castle. 
Bla. .And you would have me take this 
shape of Owlspiegle, 



And trim the wise Melchisedek .' — I wonnot, 
Kat. You will not ! 
Bla. No — unless you bear 

a part. 
Kat. What ! can you not alone play 

such a farce .? 
Bla. Not I— I'm dull. Besides, we for- 
esters 
Still hunt our game in couples. Look you, 

Katleen, 
We danced at Shrovetide — then you were 

my partner ; 
We sung at Christmas — you kept time with 

me ; 
And if we go a mumming in this business, 
By heaven, you must be one, or Master 
Gullcrammer 

Is like to rest unshaven 

Kat. Why, you fool, 

What end can this serve ? 

Bla. Nay, I know 

not, I. 
But if we keep this wont of being partners, 
Why, use makes perfect — who knows what 
may happen ? 
Kat. Thou art a foolish patch — But sing 
our carol. 
As I have alter'd it, with some few words 

To suit the characters, and I will bear 

[ Gives a paper. 
Bla. Part in the gambol. I'll go study 
quickly. 
Is there no other ghost, then, haunts the 

castle. 
But this same barber shave-a-penny goblin } 
I thouglit they glanced in every beam of 

moonshine, 
As frequent as a bat. 

Kat. I've heard my aunt's high husband 
tell of prophecies. 
And fates impending o'er the house of 

Devorgoil ; 
Legends first coin'd by ancient superstition, 
And render'd current by credulity 
And pride of lineage. Five years have I 

dwelt. 
And ne'er saw anything more mischievous 
Than what I am myself. 

Bla. And that is quite enough, I war- 
rant you. 
But, stay, where shall I find a dress 
To play this— what d'ye call him — Owl 
spiegle .'' 
Kat. {fakes dresses out of the cabinet) 
Wiiy, there are his own clothes, 
Preserved with other trumpery of the sort, 





^ 



53^ 



SCO ITS POETICAL WORKS. 



For we've kept naught but what is good 
for naught. 

\SIie drops a cap as she draws out 
the clothes. Blackthorn lifts it, 
and gives it to her. 

Nay, keep it for thy pains — it is a cox- 
comb, — 

So call'd in ancient times, in ours a fool's 
cap, — 

For you must know they kept a Fool at 
IJevorgoil 

In former days ; but now are well con- 
tented 

To p'.ay the fool themselves, to save ex- 
penses. 

Yet give it me, I'll find a worthy use for 't. 

I'll take this page's dress, to play the page 

Cockledemoy, who waits on ghostly Owl- 
spiegle ; 

And yet 'tis needless, too, for Gullcrammer 

Will scarce be here to-night. 
Bla. I tell you that he will — I will up- 
hold 

His plighted faith and true allegiance 

Unto a sows'd sow's face and sausages. 

And such the dainties that you say he sent 
you, 

Against all other likings whatsoever. 

Except a certain sneaking of affection, 

Which makes some folks I Know of play 
the fool. 

To please some other folks. 

Kat. Well, I do hope he'll come. 
There's first a chance 

He will be cudgell'd by my noble uncle — 

I cry his mercy — by my good aunt's hus- 
band, 

Who did vow vengeance, knowing naught 
of him 

But by report, and by a limping sonnet 

Which he had fashion'd to my cousin's 
glory, 

And forwarded by blind Tom Long the 
carrier ; 

So there's the chance, first, of a hearty 
beating. 

Which failing, we've this after-plot of 
vengeance. 
Cla. Kind damsel, how considerate 
and merciful ! 

But how shall we get off, our parts being 
play'd ? 
Kat. For that we are well fitted : — 
here's a trap-door 

Sinks with a counterpoise — you shall go 
that way. 




I'll make my exit yonder — 'neath the 

window, 
A balcony communicates with the tower 
That overhangs the lake. 

Bla. 'Twere a rare place, this house of 
Devorgoil, 
To play at hide-and-seek in — shall we try, 
One day, my pretty Katleen .? 

Kat. Hands off, rude ranger ! I'm no 
managed hawk 
To stoop to lure of yours. — But bear you 

gallantly ; 
This Gullcrammer hath vex'd my cousin 

much, — 
I fain would have some vengeance 
Bla. I'll bear my part with glee^ — he 
spoke irreverently 
Of practice at a mark ! 

Kat. That cries for vengeance. 

But I must go — I hear my aunt's shrill 

voice ! 
My cousin and her father will scream next. 
Ele. {at a distance). Katleen ! Kat- 
leen ! 
Bla. Hark to old Sweetlips. 
Away with you before the full cry open — 
But stay, what have you there .' 
Kat. (with a bundle she has taken from 
the wardrobe) — 
My dress, my page's dress — let it alone. 
Bla. Your tiring-room is not, I hope, 
far distant ; 
You're inexperienced in these new habili- 
ments — 
I am most ready to assist your toilet 

Kat. Out, you great ass I was ever 
such a fool ! \Rtins off. 

Bla. {sings). 
0, Robin Hood was a bowman good, 

And a bowman good was he. 
And he met with a maiden in merry Sher- 
wood, 
All under the greenwood tree. 

Now give me a kiss, quoth bold Robin 
Hood, 
Now give me a kiss, said he, 
For there never came maid into merry 
Sherwood, 
But she paid the forester's fee. 

I've coursed this twelvemonth this sly puss, 

young Katleen, 
And she has dodged me, turn'd beneath 

my nose, 
And flung me out a score of yards at once. 




THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



539 



If this same gear fadge right, I'll cote and 
mouth her, 

And then ! whoop ! dead ! dead ! dead ! — 
She is the metal 

To make a woodman's wife of ! 

\^Pauscs a moment. 

Well — I can find a hare upon her form 

With any man in Nithsdale — stalk a 
deer, 

Run Reynard to the earth for all his dou- 
bles, 

Reclaim a haggard hawk that's wild and 
wayward, 

Can bait a wild cat, — sure the devil's in't 

But I can match a woman — I'll to study. 

\Sits down on the couch to exam- 
ine the paper. 

Scene II. 

Scene changes to the inhabited apartment 
of the Castle, as in the last Scene of the 
precedi7ig Act. A fire is kindled, by 
which Oswald sits in an attitude of 
deep aud melancholy thought, ixnthoitt 
paying attention to ivhat passes around 
him. Eleanor is busy in covering a 
table ; Flora goes out and re-enters, as 
if busied iti the kitchen. There should 
be some by-play — the Women whispering 
together, and watching the state of Os- 
wald ; then separating and seeking to 
avoid his observation, when he casually 
raises his head and drops it again • 
This must be left to taste and manage- 
ment. The Women, in the first pat-t of 
the scene, talk apart, and as if fearful 
of being overheard ; the by-play of stop- 
ping occasionally, and attending to 
Oswald's movcmeiits, will give live- 
liness to the Scene. 

Ele. Is all prepared? 
Flo. Ay ; but I doubt the issue 

Will give my sire less pleasure than you 

hope for. 
Ele. Tush, maid — I know thy father's 

humor better. 
He was high-bred in gentle luxuries ; 
And when our griefs began, I've wept 

apart, 
While lordly cheer and high-fill'd cups of 

wine 
Were blmdmg him agamst the woe to 

come. 
He has turn'd his back upon a princely 

banquet ; 



We will not spread his board — this night 

at least. 
Since chance hath better furnish'd — with 

dry bread. 
And water from the well. 

Enter Katleen, a/td hears the last speech. 

Kat. {aside). Considerate aunt ! she 
deems that a good supper 
Were not a thing indifferent even to him 
Who is to hang to-morrow. Since she 

thinks so, 
We must take care the venison has due 

honor — 
So much I owe the sturdy knave, Lance 
Blackthorn. 
Flo. Mother, alas ! when Grief turns 
reveller. 
Despair is cup-bearer. What shall hap 
to-morrow ? 
Ele. I have learn'd carelessness from 
fruitless care. 
Too long I've watch'd to-morrow ; let it 

come 
And cater for itself — Thou hear'st the 
thunder. \_Lo~a' and distant thiuider. 
This is a gloomy night — within, alas ! 

[Looki}ig at her husband. 
Still gloomier and more threatening — Let 

us use 
Whatever means we have to drive it o'er. 
And leave to Heaven to-morrow. Trust 

me. Flora, 
'Tis the philosophy of desperate want 
To match itself but with the present evil, 
And face one grief at once. 
Away ! I wish thine aid, and not thy counsel. 
[As Flora is about to go off, 
Gullcrammer's voice is heard 
behind the flat scene, as if from 
the drawbridge. 
GUL. {behind). Hillo — hillo — hilloa — 
hoa — hoa ! 

[Oswald raises hitnself and lis- 
teits ; 'E.LB.htiOK goes up the steps 
and opens the windoiv at the 
loop-hole : Gullcrammer's voice 
is theft heard more distinctly. 
GuL. Kind Lady Devorgoil — sweet Mis- 
tress Flora ! — 
The night grows fearful, I have lost my way. 
And wander'd till the road turn'd round 

with me. 
And brought me back. For Heaven''^ 
sake, give me shelter ! 







S4<^' 



SCOTT'S POETICAL IVO/^KS. 



Kat. {aside). Now, as I Uve, the voice 
of Gullcrammer ! 

Now shall our gambol be play'd off with 
spirit ; 

I'll swear 1 am the only one to whom 

That screech-owl whoop was e'er accept- 
able. 
Osw. What bawling knave is this, that 
takes our dwelling 

For some hedge-inn, the haunt of lated 
drunkards ? 
Ele. What shall I say ? — Go, Katleen, 

speak to him. 
Kat. {aside). The game is in my hands 
— I will say something 

Will fret the Baron's pride — and then he 
enters. 

{S/ie speaks from the window) — Good sir, 
be patient ! 

We are poor folks — it is but six Scotch 
miles 

To the next borough town, where your 
Reverence 

May be accommodated to your wants ; 

We are poor folks, an't please your Rever- 
ence, 

And keep a narrow household — there's no 
track 

To lead your steps astray — 

GuL. Nor none to lead them right — 
You kill me, lady, 

If you deny nie harbor. To budge from 
hence. 

And in my weary plight, were sudden 
death. 

Interment, funeral-sermon, tombstone, epi- 
taph. 
Osw. Who's he that is thus clamorous 
without ? 

( To Ele.) Thou know'st him ? 

Ele. {confused). I know him ? — No — 
yes — 'tis a worthy clergyman, 

Benighted on his way ; — but think not of 
him. 
Kat. The morn will rise wlien that the 
tempest's past. 

And if he miss the marsh, and can avoid 

The crags upon the left, the road is plain. 
Osw. Then this is all youi piety ! — to 
leave 

One whom the holy duties of his office 

Have summon'd over moor and wilder- 
ness, 

To pray beside some dying wretch's bed, 

Who (erring mortal) still would cleave to 
life,— 



Or wake some stubborn sinner to repent- 
ance, — 

To leave him, after offices like these. 

To choose his way in darkness 'twixt the 
marsh 

And dizzy precipice ? 
Ele. What can I do ? 

Osw. Do what thou canst — the wealth- 
iest do no more ; 

And if so much, 'tis well. These crumb- 
ling walls. 

While yet they bear a roof, shall now, as 
ever. 

Give shelter to the wanderer. — Have we 
food? 

He shall partake it — Have we none ? the 
fast 

Shall be accounted with the good man's 
merits 

.\nd our misfortunes 

\_He goes to the loop-hole while he 
speaks, and places himself there 
in room of his Wife, who comes 
down with reluctance. 

GuL. {without). Hillo — hoa — hoa ! 

By my good faith, 1 cannot plod it farther; 

The attempt were death. 

Osw. (speaks from the window) — Pa- 
tience, my friend, I come to lower the 
drawbridge. \^Dcscends, and exit. 

Ele. O that the screaming bittern had 
his couch 

Where he deserves it, in the deepest marsh ! 
Kat. 1 would not give this sport for all 
the rent 

Of Devorgoil, when Devorgoil was richest ! 

( To Ele.) But now you chided me, my 
dearest aunt. 

For wishing him a horse-pond for his por- 
tion t 
Ele. Yes, saucy girl ; but, an it please 
you, then 

He was not fretting me. If he had sense 
enough, 

And skill to bear him as some casual 
stranger, — 

But he is dull as earth, and every hitit 

Is lost on him, as hail-shot on the cornifi- 
rant, 

Whose hide is proof except to musket-bul- 
lets I 
Flo. {apart). And yet to such a one 
would my kind mother, 

Whose chiefest fault is loving me too fondly 

Wed her poor daughter .' 









r/ffi DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



541 



Enter GULLCRAMMER, ///5 (/r^w damaged 
by the storm ; Eleanor runs to meet 
him, tit order to exftaijt to /liiit that she 
wished him to behave as a stranger. 
GuLLCRAMMER, mistaking her approacJi 
for an invitation to familiarity, ad- 
vances with the air of pedantic conceit be- 
longing to his character, when Oswald 
enters, — Eleanor recovers herself, and 
assumes an air of distance- -G U LLC RAM- 
MER ?.f confounded, and does 7iot know 
what to make of it. 

Osw. The counterpoise has clean given 

way ; the bridge 
Must e'en remain unraised, and leave us 

open, 
For this night's course at least, to passing 

visitants.— 
What have we here ? — is this the reverend 

man ? 

[He takes up the ca-ndle, and sur- 
veys GuLLCRAMMER, who strives 
to sustain the inspection with con- 
fidence, while fear obviously con- 
tends with conceit and desire to 
show himself to the best advantage. 

GuL, Kind sir — or, good my lord — my 
band is ruffled. 
Bat yet 'twas fresh this morning. This 

fell shower 
Hath somewhat smirch'd my cloak, but 

you may note 
It rates five marks per yard ; my doublet 
Hath fairly 'scaped — 'tis three-piled taffeta. 
\Opcns his cloak, and displays his 
doublet. 
Osw. A goodly inventory — Art thou a 

preacher '! 
GuL. Yea — I laud Heaven and good 

Saint Mungo for it. 
Osw. 'Tis the time's plague, when those 
that should weed follies 
Out of the common field, have their own 

minds 
O'errun with foppery — Envoys 'twixt 

heaven and earth, 
Exa«iple should with precept join, to show 

us 
How we may scorn the world with all its 
vanities. 
GuL. Nay, the high heavens forefend 
that I were vain ! 
When our learn'd Principal such sounding 
laud 



Gave to mine Essay on the hiddeh qualities 

Of the sulphuric mineral, I disclaim'd 

All self-exaltment. And {turning to the 
women ) when at the dance, 

The lovely Saccharissa Kirkencroft, 

Daughter to Kirkencroft of Kirkencroft, 

Graced me with her soft hand, credit me, 
ladies. 

That still I felt myself a mortal man, 

Though beauty smiled on me. 
Osw. Come, sir, enough of this. 

That you're ouj- guest to-night, thank the 
rough heavens. 

And all our worser fortunes ; be conform- 
able 

Unto my rules ; these are no Saccharissas 

To gild with compliments. There's in your 
profession, 

As the best grain will have its piles of 
chaff, 

A certain whiffler, who hath dared to bait 

A noble maiden with love tales and son- 
nets ; 

And if I meet him, his Geneva cap 

May scarce be proof to save his ass's ears. 
Kat. {aside). Umph — I am strongly 
tempted ; 

And yel \ think I will be generous. 

And give his brains a chance to save his 
bones. 

Then there's more humor in our goblin 
plot. 

Than in a simple drubbing. 

Ele. {apart to Flo). What shall we 
do ? If he discover him. 

He'll fling him out at window. 

Flo. My father's hint to keep himself 
unknown 

Is all too broad, I think, to be neglected. 
Ele. But yet the fool, if wc produce his 
bounty. 

May claim the merit of presenting it ; 

And then we're but lost women for accept- 
ing 

A gift our needs made timely. 

Kat. Do not produce them. 

E'en let the fop go supperless to bed, 

And keep his bones whole. 

Osw. {to his Wife) — Hast thou aught 

To place before him ere he seek repose ? 
Ele. Alas ! too well you know our need- 
ful fare 

Is of the narrowest now, and knows no sur- 
plus. 
Osw. Shame us not with th^' niggard 
hoHsekeepirig : 




w 









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6 1— J 


. /^ 


1 f» 






X 




5 


42 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 






le is a stranger — were it our last crust, 


O'er-driven jests (if this be one) are in 




And he the veriest coxcomb e'er wore 


Solent. 






J [^ taffeta, 


Y 1.0. {apart, seeing her mother uneasy) — ^^ [^ 






A pitch he's little short of — he must 


The old saw still holds true — a churl's 1 






share it, 


benefits, 






Though all should want to-morrow. 


Sauced with his lack of feeling, sense, and 






GUL. {partly overhearing -what passes 


courtesy, 






between them) — 


Savor like injuries. 






Nay, I am no lover of your sauced 


\_A horn is u'inded withoid : then a 






dainties — 


loud k-riocking at the gate. 






Plain food and plenty is my motto still. 


Leo. {without). Ope, for the sake of 






Your mountain air is bleak, and brings an 


love and charity ! 






appetite : 


[Oswald goes to the loop-hole. 






A soused sow's face, now, to my modest 


GuL. Heaven's mercy! should there 






thinking, 


come another stranger, 






Has ne'er a fellow. What think these fair 


And he half starved with wandering on the 






ladies 


wolds. 






Of a sow's face and sausages ? 


The sow's face boasts no substance, nor the 






{Sflakes sig}is to Eleanor. 


sausages. 






Flo. Plague on the vulgar hind, and 


To stand our reinforced attack ! I judge, too, 






on his courtesies ! 


By this starved Baron's language, there's 






The whole truth will come out ! 


no hope 






Osw. What should they think, but that 


Of a reserve of victuals. 






you're like to lack 


Flo. Go to the casement, cousin. 






Your favorite dishes, sir, unless per- 


Kat. Go yourself, 






chance 


And bid the gallant, who that bugle 






You bring such dainties with you. 


winded, 






GuL. No, not iinth me ; not, indeed. 


Sleep in the storm-swept waste ; as meet 






Directly with me; but — Aha! fair ladies! 


for him 






\J\Iakes signs again. 


As for Lance Blackthorn. — Come, I'll not 






Kat. He'll draw the beating down — 


distress you ; 






Were that the worst, 


I'll get admittance for this second suitor, 






Heaven's will be done ! [Asic/e. 


And we'll play out this gambol at cross 






Osw. {apart). What can he mean ? — 


purposes. 






this is the veriest dog-whelp — 


But see, your father has prevented me. 






Still he's a stranger, and the latest a£t 


Osw. {seems to have spoken with those 






Of hospitality in this old mansion 


without, and atiswers) — 






Shall not be sullied. 


Well, I will ope the door ; one gues 






GuL. Troth, sir, I think, under the 


already. 






ladies' favor, 


Driven by the storm, has claim'd ray 






Without pretending skill in second-sight, 


hospitality. 






Those of my cloth being seldom con- 


And you, if you were fiends, were scarce 






jurers 


less welcome 






Osw. I'll take my Bible-oath that thou 


To this my mouldering roof, than empty 






art none. [Aside. 


ignorance 






GuL. I do opine, still with the ladies' 


And rank conceit. I hasten to admit you. 






favor, 


{Exit 






That I could guess the nature of our 


Ele. {to Flo.) The tempest thickens; 






supper 


By that winded bugle. 






1 do not say in such and such precedence 


I guess the guest that next will hono 






The dishes will be placed — housewives, as 


us. — - 






- you know, 


Little deceiver, that didst mock my 






n On such forms have their fancies ; but, I 


troubles, ' -^ r 






say still. 


'Tis now thy turn to fear ? 






That a sow's face and sausages 


Flo. Mother, if I knew less or more of 






Osw, Peace, sir ! 


this 




t 








J 




V' ^ 


H ' , 


<• 


:zL 


ir><7 




V. *^ 


r^A — D 


« 1 


~ 


— .y 






! 




THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



543 



Unthought-of and most perilous visitation, 
I would your wishes were fulfill'd on me, 
And I were wedded to a thing like yon. 
GuL. {approaching). Come, ladies, now 

you see the jest is threadbare. 
And you must own that same sow's face 

and sausages 

Re-enter Oswald with Leonard, stip- 

/(7r//«^BAULDIE DURWARD. OsWALD 

takes a vieiv of them, as formerly ?f 
GuLLCRAMMER, then speaks — 

Osw. {to Leo.) By thy green cassocV:, 
hunting-spear, and bugle, 
I guess thou art a huntsman .' 

Leo. {boiling with respect")— 
A ranger of the neighboring royal forest, 
Under the good Lord Nithsdale ; hunts- 
man, therefore. 
In time of peace; and when the land has 

war, 
To my best powers a soldier. 

Osw. Welcome, as either. I have 
loved the chase. 
And was a soldier once. — This aged man. 
What may he be 1 

DuR. {recovering his breath') — 
Is but a beggar, sir, an humble mendicant. 
Who feels it passing strange, that from 

this roof, 
Above all others, he should now crave 
shelter. 
Osw. Why so.? You're welcome both 
— only the word 
Warrants more courtesy than our present 

means 
Permit us to bestow A huntsman and a 

soldier 
May be a prince's comrade, much more 

mine ; 
And for a beggar— friend, there little 

lacks. 
Save that blue gown and badge, and 

clouted pouches, 
To make us comrades too ; then welcome 

both. 
And to a beggar's feast, I fear, brown 

bread. 
And water from the spring, will be the 

best on't ; 
For we _ had cast to wend abroad this 

evening, 
And left our larder empty. 

GUL. Yet, if some kindly fairy, 

In our behalf, would search its hid 
recesses.— 



{Apart') We'll not go supperless now— 

A-e're three to one. — 
Still do I say, that a soused face and 

sausages 

Osw. {looks sternly at him, then at hii 
■wife) — 
There's something under this, but that 

the present 
Is not a time to question. — {To Ele, 

Wife, my mood 
Is at such height of tide, that a turn'd 

feather 
Would make me frantic now, with mirth 
[ or fury ! 

Tempt me no more — but if thou hast the 

things 
This carrion crow so croaks for, bring 

them forth ; 
For, by my father's beard, if I stand 

caterer, 
'Twill be a fearful banquet ! 

Ele. Your pleasure be obey'd — Come 

aid me, Flora. [Exeunt. 

[During the following speeches, the 

Women place dishes on the table. 

Osw. {to DuR.) How did you lose your 

path ? 
DuR. E'en when we thought to find it, 
a wild meteor 
Danced in the moss, and led our feet 

astray. — 
I give small credence to the tales of old, 
Of Friar's-lantern told, and Will-o'-Wisp, 
Else would I say, that some malicious 

demon 
Guided us in a round ; for to the moat, 
Which we had pass'd two hours since. 

were we led, 
And there the gleam flicker'd and disap- 

pear'd. 
Even on your drawbridge. I was so wore 

down, 
So broke with laboring through marSe 

and moor, 
That, wold I nold I, here my young con- 
ductor 
Would needs implore for entrance; else, 

believe me, 
I had not troubled you. 

Osw. And why not, father ?— have you 
e'er heard aught. 
Or of my house or me, that wanderers, 
Whom or their roving trade or sudden cir- 
cumstance 
Oblige to seek a shelter, should avoid 
The House of Devorgoil t 






544 



SCOTT'S POE77CAL IVOR AS. 



DUR. Sir, I am English born — 

Native of Cumberland. Enough is said 
Why I should shun those towers, whose 

lords were hostile 
To English blood, and unto Cimiberland 
Most hostile and most fatal. 

Osw. Ay, father. Once my grandsire 

plough'd and harrow'd, 
And sow'd with salt, the streets of your 

fair towns : 
But what of that? — you have the 'vantage 

now. 
DuR. True, Lord of Devorgoil, and well 

believe I, 
That not in vain we sought these towers 

to-night. 
So strangely guided, to behold their state. 
Osw. Ay, thou wouldst say, 'twas fit a 

Cumbrian beggar 
Should sit an equal guest in his proud halls. 
Whose fathers beggar'd Cumberland — 

Graybeard, let it be so, 
I'll not dispute it with thee. 

( To Leo, who was speaking to 
Flora, but, on being surprised, 
occupied himself with the suit of 
armor) — 

What makest thou 

there, young man '! 
Leo. I marvell'd at this harness ; it is 

larger 
Than arms of modern days. How richly 

carved [rivets — 

With gold inlaid on steel — how close the 
How justly fit the joints ! I think the 

gauntlet 
W^ould swallow twice my hand. 

[He is about to take down some part 
of the armor ; Oswald interferes. 

Osw. Do not displace it. 

My grandsire, Erick, doubled human 

strength. 
And almost human size — and human 

knowledge, 
And human vice, and human virtue also, 
As storm or sunshine chanced to occupy 
His mental liemisphere. After a fatal deed, 
He hung his armor on the wall, forbidding 
It e'er should be ta'en down. There is a 

prophecy. 
That of itself 'twill fall, upon the night 
When, in the fiftieth year from his decease, 
Devorgoil's feast is full. This is the era ; 
But, as too well you see, no meet occasion 



Will do the downfall of the armor justice. 

Or grace it with a feast. There let it bide, 

Trying its strength with the old walls it 
hangs on. 

Which shall fall soonest. 

DuR. {looking at the trophy with a mix- 
ture of feeling) — 

Then there stern Erick's harness hangs 
untouch'd. 

Since his last fatal raid on Cumberland ! 
Osw. Ay, waste and want, and reckless- 
ness — a comrade 

Still yoked with waste and want — have 
stripp'd tliese walls 

Of every other trophy. Antler'd skulls, 

Whose branches vouch'd the tales old vas- 
sals told 

Of desperate chases — partisans and 
spears — 

Knights' barred helms and shields — the 
shafts and bows, 

Axes and breastplates, of the hardy yeo- 
manry — 

The banners of the vanquish'd — signs 
these arms 

Were not assumed in vain, have disap- 
peared ; 

Yes, one by one they all have disappear'd ; — 

And now Lord Erick's harness hangs alone, 

'Midst implements of vulgar husbandry 

And mean economy; as some old warrior, 

Whom want hath made an inmate of an 
alms-house, 

Shows, mid the beggar'd spendthrifts, base 
mechanics. 

And bankrupt pedlers, with whom fate has 
mix'd him. 
DuR. Or rather like a pirate, whom the 
prison-house. 

Prime leveller next the grave, hath for the 
first time 

Mingled with peaceful captives, low in for- 
tunes, 

But fair in innocence. 

Osw. (looki7ig at DuRWARD with sur- 
prise) — Friend, thou art bitter ! 
DuR. Plain truth, sir, like the vulgar 
copper coinage. 

Despised amongst tlie gentry, still finds 
value 

And currency with beggars. 
Osw. Be it so. 

I will not trench on the immunities 

I soon may claim to share. Thy features, too, 

Though weather-beaten, and thy strain ol 
languaee, 






THE DOOM OF DEVOKGOIL. 



545 



Relish of better days. Come hither, friend, 
[ They speak apart. 
And let me ask thee of thine occupation. 

[Leon.'^RD looks round, and, see- 
ing OsWAlS) engaged with DuR- 

WARU, atld GULLCRAMMER IL'ith 

Eleanor, approaches towards 
Flora, who must give him an 
opportunity of doing so, with ob- 
vious attentiojt on her part to give 
it the air of chance. The by- play 
here will rest with the Lady, who 
7nust engage the attention of the 
attdience by playing off a little 
female hypocrisy and simple co- 
quetry. 

Leo. Flora 

Flo. Ay, gallant huntsman, may she 
deign to question 
Whv Leonard came not at the appointed 

hour ; 
Or why he came at midnight? 

Leo. Love has no certain loadstar, gentle 
Flora, 
And oft gives up the helm to wayward 

pilotage. 
To say the sooth — A beggar forced me 

hence. 
And \Vili-o'-wisp did guide us back again. 
Flo. Ay, ay, your beggar was the faded 
spectre 
Of Poverty, that sits upon the threshold 
Of these our ruin'd walls. I've been un- 
wise, 
Leonard, to let you speak so oft with me ; 
And you a fool to say what you have said. 
E'en let us here break short ; and, wise at 

length. 
Hold each our separate way through life's 
wide ocean. 
Leo. Nay, let us rather join our course 
together, 
And share the breeze or tempest, doubling 

joys, 
Relieving sorrows, warding evils off 
With mutual effort, or enduring them 
With mutual patience. 

Flo. This is but flattering counsel — 
sweet and baneful ; 
But mine had wholesome bitter in't. 

Kat. Ay, ay ; but like the sly apothe- 
cary. 
You'll be the last to take the bitter drug 
That you prescribe to others. 

\^They whisper. Ele.^nor ad- 

35 



vances to interrupt them, fol- 
lowed by Gullcrammer. 
Ele. What, maid, no household cares ? 
Leave to your elders 
The task of filling passing strangers' ears 
Witli the due notes of welcome. 

GuL. Be it thine, 

O, Mistress Flora, the more useful talent 
Of filhng strangers' stomachs with sub- 
stantial ; 
That is to say, — for learned commentators 
Do so expound substantials in some 

places, — 
With a soused bacon-face and sausages. 
Flo. {apart'). Would thou wert soused, 
intolerable pedant, 
Base, greedy, perverse, interrupting cox- 
comb ! 
Kat. Hush, coz, for we'll be well 
avenged on him. 
And ere this night goes o'er, else woman's 

wit 
Cannot o'ertake her wishes. 

\She proceeds to arrange seats. 
Os\v.\LD and Durward come 
forward in conversation. 
Osw. I like thine humor well. — So all 

men beg 

Dur. Yes — I can make it good by proof. 
Your soldier 
Begs for a leaf of laurel, and a line 
In the Gazette; — he brandishes his sword 
To back his suit, and is a sturdy beggar. — 
The courtier begs a ribbon or a star, 
.And, like our gentler mumpers, is provided 
With false certificates of health and for- 
tune 
Lost in the public service. — For your 

lover, 
Who begs a sigh, a smile, a lock of hair, 
A buskin-point, he maunds upon the pad. 
With the true cant of. pure mendicity, 
" The smallest trifle to relieve a Christian. 
And if it like your ladyship ! " 

[/w a begging tone. 
K.^T. (apart). This is a cunning knave, 
and feeds the humor 
Of my aunt's husband, for I must not say 
Mine honor'd uncle. I will try a ques- 
tion. — 
Your man of merit though, who serves the 
commonwealth. 

Nor asks for a requital? 

[ To Durward. 

Dur. Is a dumb beggar. 

And lets his actions speak like signs for him. 




A 



w 



# 



546 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Challenging double guerdon. — Now, I'll 

show 
How your true beggar has the fair advan- 
tage 
O'er all the tribes of cloak'd mendicity 
I have told over to you. — The soldier's 

laurel, 
The statesman's ribbon, and the lady's 

favor. 
Once won and gain'd, are not held worth 

a farthing 
By such as longest, loudest, canted for 

them ; 
Whereas your charitable halfpenny. 
Which is the scope of a true beggar's 

suit, 
Is worth two farthings, and, in times of 

plenty, 
Will buy a crust of bread. 

Flo. {interrzipting him, and address- 
ing her father) — 
Sir, let me be a beggar with the time,' 
And pray you come to supper. 

Ele. {to Oswald, apart). Must he sit 

with us ? [Looking at Durward. 

Osw. Ay, ay, what else — since we are 

beggars all ? 
When cloaks are ragged, sure their vv^orth 

is equal, 
Whether at first they were of silk or 

woollen. 
Ele. Thou art scarce consistent. 
This day thou didst refuse a princely ban- 
quet. 
Because a new-made lord was placed 

above thee; 

And now 

Osw. Wife, I have seen, at public exe- 
cutions, 
A wretch that could not brook the hand of 

violence 
Should push him from the scaffold, pluck 

up courage, 
And, with a desperate sort of cheerfulness. 
Take the fell plunge himself — 
■Velcome then, beggars, to a beggar's 

feast ! 
Gul. (who has in the mean while seated 

himself) — 
But this is more. — A better countenance, — 
Fair fall the hands that soused it ! — than 

this hog's. 
Or prettier provender than these same 

sausages, 
(By what good friend sent hither, shall be 

nameless — 



Doubtless some youth whom love hath 
made profuse,) 

\Smiling significantly at Eleanor 
atid Flora.] 
No prince need wish to peck at. Long, I 

ween. 
Since that the nostrils of this house (by 

metaphor, 
I mean the chimneys) smell'd a stream so 

grateful. — 
By your good leave I cannot dally longer. 

\_Hclps himself 
Osw. {places Durward above Gull- 
crammer). Meanwhile, sir. 
Please it your youthful learning to give 

place 
To gray hairs and to wisdom ; and, more- 
over, 

If you had tarried for the benediction 

Gul. {somewhat abashed). I said grace 

to myself. 
Osw. {>iot minding him) — And waited 
for the company of others, 
It had been better fashion. Time has been, 
I should have told a guest'at Devorgoil, 
Bearing himself thus forward, he was 
saucy. 

[^He seats himself, and helps the cotn- 
pany and himself in dumb-show. 
There should be a contrast betwixt 
the precision of his aristocratic 
civility, and the rude underbreed- 
ing (3/Gullcrammer. 
Osw. {having tasted the dish next him) 

— Why, this is venison, Eleanor ! 
Gul. Eh! What! Let's stt— {Pushes 
across Oswald and helps himself.) 
It may be venison- - 
I'm sure 'tis not beef, veal, mutton, lamb, 

or pork. 
Eke am I sure, that be it what it will, 
It is not half so good as sausages. 
Or as a sow's face soused. 

Osw. Eleanor, whence all this ? 

Ele. Wait till to-morrow, 

You shall know all. It was a happy chance 
That furnish'd us to meet so many guests 

— {Fills wine). 
Try if your cup be not as richly garnish'd 
As is your trencher. 
Kat. {apart). My aunt adheres to the 
good cautious maxim 
Of " Eat your pudding, friend, and hold 
your tongue ." 
Osw. {tastes the wine). It is the grape 
of Bordeaux. 



THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



547 



Such dainties, once familiar to my board, 

Have been estranged from't long. 

\_He again fills his glass, and con- 
tinues to speak as he holds it up. 

Fill round, my friends — here is a treacher- 
ous friend, now. 

Smiles in your face, yet seeks to steal the 
jewel. 

Which is distinction between man and 
brute — 

I mean our reason ; this he does, and 
smiles. 

But are not all friends treacherous ? One 
shall cross you 

Even in your dearest interests — one shall 
slander you — 

This steal your daughter, that defraud 
your purse ; 

But this gay flask of Bordeaux will but 
borrow 

Your sense of mortal sorrows foj a season, 

And leave, instead, a gay delirium. 

Methinks my brain, unused to such gay 
visitants. 

The influence feels already! — we will 
revel ! — 

Our banquet shall be loud !— it is our last. 

Katleen, thy song. 

Kat. Not now, my lord — I mean to 
sing to-night 

For this same moderate, grave, and rever- 
end clergyman ; 

I'll keep my voice till then. 

Ele. Your round refusal shows but cot- 
tage breeding. 
Kat. Ay, my good aunt, for I was cot- 
tage-nurtured, 

And taught, I think, to prize my own wild 
will 

Above all sacrifice to compliment. 

Here is a huntsman— in his eyes I read it. 

He sings the martial song my uncle loves, 

What time fierce Claver'se with his Cava- 
liers, 

Abjuring the new change of government. 

Forcing his fearless way through timorous 
friends. 

And enemies as timorous, left the capital 

To rouse in James's cause the distant 
Highlands. 

Have you ne'er heard the song, my noble 
uncle ? 
Osw. Have I not heard, wench? — It 
was I rode next him — 

'Tis thirty summers since — rode by his 
rein ; 



We marched on through the alarmed city, 
As sweeps the osprey through a flock of 

gulls, 
Who scream and flutter, but dare no re- 
sistance 
Against the bold sea-empress. They did 

murmur, 
The crowds before us, in their sullen wrath, 
And those whom we had pass'd, gathering 

fresh courage, 
Cried havoc in the rear — we minded them 
E'en as the brave bark minds the bursting 

billows, 
Which, yielding to her bows, burst on hci 

sides. 
And ripple in her wake. — Sing me that 

strain, ( To Leo.) 
And thou shalt have a meed I sekloiv. 

tender. 
Because they're all I have to give^nr, 

thanks. 
Leo. Nay, if you'll bear with what 1 

cannot help, 
A voice that's rougli with hollowing to the 

hounds, 
I'll sing the song even as old Rowland 

taught me. 

SONG. 

Air, — " The Bonnets of Bonny Dundee." 

To the Lords of Convention 'twas Claver'se 

who spoke, 
" Ere the King's crown shall fall, there 

are crowns to be broke : 
So let each Cavalier who loves honor and 

me. 
Come follow the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 

Come fill up my cup, come fill up 

my can. 
Come saddle your horses, and call 

up your mem ; 
Come open the West Fort, and let 

me gang free, 
And it's room for the bonnets of 

bonny Dundee ! " 

Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the 

street. 
The bells are rimg backward, the drums 

they are beat ; 
But the Provost, douce man, said, " Just 

e'en let him be, 
The Gude Town is weel quit of that Deil 

of Dundee." 

Come fill up my cnip, &c. 



-i-j 



548 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



As he rode down the sanctified bends of 

the Bow, 
Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her pow ; 
But the young plants of grace they look'd 

couthie and slee, 
Thinking, luck to thy bonnet, thou Bonny 

Dundee ! 
Come fill up my cup, &c. 

With sour-featured Whigs the Grass- 
market was cramm'd, 

As if half the West had set tryst to be 
hang'd ; 

There was spite in each look, there was 
tear in each e'e, 

As they vvatch'd for the bonnets of Bonny 
Dundee. 
Come fill up myocup, &c. 

These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and 

had spears 
And Jang-hafted gullies to kill Cavaliers ; 
But they shrunk to close-heads, and the 

causeway was free. 
At the toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 
Come fill up my cnp, &c 

He spurr'd to the foot of the proud Castle 

rock, 
And with the gay Gordon he gallantly 

spoke, 
" Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak 

twa words or three. 
For the love of the bonnet of Bonny Dun 

dee." 

Come fill up my cup, &c 

The Gordon demands of him which way 
he goes — 

" Where'er shall direct me the shade of 
Montrose ! 

'\'our Grace in short space shall hear tid- 
ings of me, 

Or that low lies the bonnet of Bonny 
Dundee. 
Come fill up my cup, &c. 

"There are hills beyond Pentland, and 
lands beyond Forth, 

If there's lords in the Lowlands, there's 
chiefs in the North ; 

There are wild Duniewassals three thou- 
sand times three. 

Will cry hotgh .' for the bonnet of Bonny 
Dundee. 
Come fill up my cup, &c. 



" There's brass on the target of barken'd 

bull-hide ; 
There's steel in the scabbard that dangles 

beside ; 
The brass shall be burnish'd, the steel 

shall flash free, 
At a toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 
Come fill up my cup, &c. 

" Away to the hills, to the caves, to the 

rocks ! — 
Ere I own an usurper, I'll couch with the 

fox!— 
And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of 

your glee, 
You have not seen the last of my bonnet 

and me ! '' 
Come fill up my cup, &c. 

He waved his proud hand, and the trum- 
pets were blown. 

The kettle-drums clash'd, and the horse- 
men rode on, 

Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on dermis- 
ton's lee. 

Died away the wild war-notes of Bonny 
Dundee. 

Come fill up my cu,p, come fill up my 

can. 
Come saddle the horses, and call up 

the men, 
Come open your gates, and let me 

gae free, 
For it's up with the bonnets of 

Bonny Dundee ! 

Ele. Katleen, do thou sing now. Thy 

uncle's cheerful ; 
We must not let his humor ebb again. 
Kat. But I'll do better, aunt, than if I 

sung, 
For Flora can sing bliths ; so can this 

huntsman. 
As he has shown e'en now ; let them duet 

it. 
Osw. Well, huntsman, we must give to 

freakish maiden 
The freedom of her fancy — Raise the 

carol, 
And Flora, if she can, will join the meas- 
ure. 

SONG. 

When friends are met o'er merry cheer, 
And lovely eyes are laughing near. 
And in the goblet's bosom clear 
The cares of day are drown 'd , 




<r^ 




THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



549 



When puns are made, and bumpers quaff'd, 

And wild Wit shoots his roving shaft, 
And Mirth his jovial laugh has laugh'd, 

Then is our banquet crown'd, 
Ah ga}', 

Then is our banquet crown'd. 

When glees are sung, and catches troll'd, 
And bashfulness grows bright and bold, 
And beauty is no longer cold. 

And age no longer dull ; 
When chimes are brief, and cocks do crow, 
To tell us it is time to go, 
Yet how to part we do not know, 

Then is our feast at, full, 
Ah, gay, 

Then is our feast at full. 

Osw. (rises with his cup in his hand) — 
Devorgoil's feast is full — Drink to the 
pledge 1 

\A tremendous burst of thunder 
follows these words of the Song; 
and the Lightning should seem 
to strike the suit of black Armor, 
which falls with a crash. All 
rise in surprise and fear except 
GULLCRAMMER, who tumbles 
over backwards, and lies still. 
Osw. That sounded like the judgment- 
peal- -the roof 
Still trembles with the volley 

DuR. Happy those, 

Who are prepared to meet such fearful 

summons. 
Leonard, what dost thou there ? 

Leo, {supporting Flo.) The duty of 
a man — 
Supporting innocence. Were it the final 

call, 
I were not misemploy'd, 

Osw, The armor of my grandsire hath 
fall'n down, 
And old saws have spoke tx\x\\\.— {Musing.) 

The fiftieth year— 
Devorgoil's feast at fullest ! What to 

think of it 

Leo. [lifting a scroll which had fallen 
with the armor) — 
This may inform \xs.— (Attempts to read 
the manuscript, shakes his head, and 
giies it to Oswald) — 
But not to eyes unlearn'd it tells its tidings. 
Osw. Hawks, hounds, and revelling 
consumed the hours 
I should have given to study {Looks at 
the manuscript.) 



These characters I spell not more than 
thou. 

They are not of our day, and, as I think, 

Not of our language. — Where's our 
scholar now, 

So forward at the banquet .'' Is he laggard 

Upon a point of learning ? 

Leo Here is the man of letter'd dig- 
nity, 

E'en in a piteous case. (Drags Gull- 
crammer forward. ) 
Osw. Art waking, craven .? Canst thoa 
read this scioU 1 

Or art thou only learn'd in sousing swine's 
flesh. 

And prompt in eating it ? 

GuL. Eh — ah I — oh — ho ! — Have you 
no better time 

To lax a man with riddles, than the 
moment 

When he scarce knows whether he's dead 
or living ? 
Osw. Confound the pedant ? — Can you 
read the scroll. 

Or can you not, sir l If you can, pronounce 

Its meaning speedily. 

GuL. Can I read it, quotha! 

When at our learned University, 

I gain'd first premium for Hebrew learn- 
ing, — 

Which was a pound of high-dried Scottish 
snuff. 

And half a peck of onions, with a bushel 

Of curious oatmeal, — our learned Principal 

Did say, " Melchisedek, thou canst do any- 
thing ! " 

Now comes he with his paltry scroll of 
parchment. 

And, '■^ Can you read it?" — After such 
affront, 

The point is, if I will. 

Osw. A point soon solved, 

Unless you choose to sleep among the 
frogs ; 

For look you, sir, there is the chamber 
window, — 

Beneath it lies the lake. , 

Ele. Kind master Gullcrammer, be* 
ware my husband. 

He brooks no contradiction — 'tis his fault. 

And in his wrath he's dangerous. 

GuL. (looks at the scroll, and mutters as 
if reading) — 

Hashgaboth hotch-potch — 

.\ simple matter th^s to make a rout of — 

Ten rasher scr bacon, tnish-tnasJt venison, 





^ 




00^ 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Sansagian siused-face — 'Tis a simple 

catalogue 
Of our small supper — made by the grave 

sage 
Whose prescience knew this night that we 

should feast 
On venison, hash'd sow's face, and saus- 
ages, 
And hung his steel coat for a supper bell. 
E'en let us to our provender again. 
For it is written, we shall finish it. 
And bless our stars the lightning left it us. 
Osw This must be impudence or ignor- 
ance! 
The spirit of rough Erick stirs within me. 
And I will knock thy brains out if thou 

falterest ! 
Expound the scroll to me ! 

GuL. You're over-hasty ; 

And yet you may be right too— 'Tis 

Samaritan, 
Now I look closer on't, and 1 did take it 
For simple Hebrew. 

DuR. 'Tis Hebrew to a simpleton, 
That we see plainly, friend — Give me the 
scroll. 
GuL. Alas, good friend 1 what would 

you do with it ? 
DuR. {takes it from him). 
My best to read it, sir — The character is 

Saxon, 
Used at no distant date within this dis- 
trict ; 
And thus the tenor runs — not in Samaritan, 
Nor simple Hebrew, but in wholesome 
English : — 
'' 1 )evorgoil, thy bright moon waneth. 
And the rust thy harness staineth ; 
Servile guests the banquet soil 
Of the once proud Devorgoil. 
But should Black Erick's armor fall, 
Look for guests shall scare you all I 
They shall come ere peep of day, — 
Wake and watch, and hope and pray." 
Kat. (to Flo.) Here is fine foolery ! 
An old wall shakes 
At a loud tliunder-clap — down comes a suit 
Of ancient armor, when its wasted braces 
Were all too rotten to sustain its v;eight — 
A beggar cries out. Miracle ! — and your 

father. 
Weighing the importance of his name and 

lineage, 
Must needs believe the dotard ! 
Flo Mock not, I pray you ; this may 
be toe serious. 



Kat. And if I live till morning, I wili 
have 
The power to tell a better tale of wonder 
Wrought on wise Gallcrammer I'll go 
prepare me. {^Exit. 

Flo. I have not Katleen's spirit, yet I 
hate 
This Gullcrammer too heartily to stop 
Any disgrace that's hasting towards him. 
Osw. (to whom the Beggar has been 
again reading the scroll). 
'Tis a strange prophecy ! — The silver 

moon. 
Now waning sorely, is our ancient bear- 
ing — 
Strange and unfitting guests — 

GuL, (interrupting him). Ay, ay, the 

matter 

Is, as you say, all moonshine in the water. 

Osw. How mean you, sir ? (threatening). 

GuL. To show that 1 can rhyme 

With yonder bluegown. Give me bieath 

and time, 
1 will maintain, in spite of his pretence. 
Mine exposition had the better sense — 
It spoke good victuals and increase of 

cheer ; 
And his, more guests to eat what we have 

here — 
An increment right needless. 

Osw- Get thee gone ! 

To kennel, hound ! 

GuL. The hound will have his bone. 

[ Takes up the platter of meat, and a flask. 

Osw. Flora, show him his chamber — 

take him henge, 

Or, by the name Ibear, I'll see his brains! 

GuL. Ladies, good-night! — I spare you, 

sir, the pains. 

\^Exit, lighted by Flora, with a 
lamp. 
Osw, The owl is fled.— I'll not to bed 
to-night ; 
There is some change impending o'er this 

house, 
For good or ill. I would some holy man 
Were here, to counsel us what we should do ! 
Yon witlsss thin-faced gull is but a cassock 
Stuff'd out with chaff and straw. 

DUR. (assuming an air of dignity), 1 
have been wont, 
In other days, to point to erring mortals 
The lock which they should anchor on. 

[//t- liolds up a Cross — the rest take 
a posture of devotion., and the 
Scene closes 



^ 






THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



551 



ACT III.— Scene I. 
A ruinous Anteroom in the Castle. 

Enter Katleen, fantastically dressed to 

play the character of Cockledemoy, with 

the visor iT>, her hand. 

Kat. I've scarce had time to glance at 

mj' sweet person, 

Yet this much could I see, with half a 

glance, 
My elfish dress becomes nie — • I'll not 

mask me. 
Till I have seen Lance Blackthorn. Lance, 
I say ! \Calls. 

Blackthorn, make haste ! 

Enter Blackthorn, half dressed as 

Oxvlspieglc. 
Bla. Here am I — Blackthorn in the 
upper half, 
Much at your service ; but my nether parts 
Are goblinized and Owlspiegled. I had 

much ado 
To get these trankums on. I judge Lord 

Erick 
Kept no good house, and starved his 
quondam barber. 
Kat. Peace, ass, and hide you — Gull- 
crammer is coming ; 
He left the hall before, but then took fright. 
And e'en sneak'd back. The Lady Flora 

lights him — 
Trim occupation for her ladysliip ! 
Had you seen Leonard, when she left the 

hall 
On such fine errand ! 

Bl.'V. This Gullcrammer shall have a 
bob extraordinary 
For my good comrade's sake.— But tell 

me, Katleen, 
What dress is this of yours ? 
Kat. A page's, fool ! 

Bla. I am accounted no great scholar. 
But 'tis a page that I would fain peruse 
A little closer. \_Approaches her. 

Kat. Put on your spectacles, 

A.nd try if you can read it at this distance. 
For you shall come no nearer. 

Bl.\. But is there nothing, then, save 
rank imposture. 
In all these tales of goblinry at Devorgoil ? 
Kat. My aunt's grave lord thinks other- 
wise, supposing 
That his great name so interests the 

Heavens, 
That miracles must needs bespeak its fall. 



j I would that I were in a lowly cottage, 
Beneath the greenwood, on its walls no 
armor 

To court the levin-bolt 

Bla. And a kind husband, Katleen, 

To ward such dangers as must needs come 

nigh.— 
My father's cottage stands so low and lone, 
That you would think it solitude itself ; 
The greenwood shields it from the northern 

blast. 
And, in the woodbine round its latticed 

casement. 
The linnet's sure to build the earliest nest 
in all the forest. 
Kat. Peace, you fool, — they come. 

[Flora lights Gullcrammer 
across the Stage. 
Kat. {when they have passed) — Away 
with you ! 
On with your cloak — be ready at the signal - 
Bla. And shall we talk of that same 
cottage, Katleen, 
At better leisure ? I have much to say 
In favor of my cottage. 

Kat. It you will be talking, 

You know I can't prevent you. 

Bla. That's enough. 

{Aside.) I shall have leave, I see, to spell 

the page 
A little closer, when the due time comes. 

Scene II. 

Scene changes to Gullcrammer's sleeping 
Apartment. He enters, ushered in by 
Flora, -who sets on the table a flask, 
■with the lamp. 

Flo. A flask, in case your Reverence 

be athirsty ; 

A light, in case your Reverence be afear'd ; — 

And so, sweet slumber to your Reverence. 

GuL. Kind .Mistress Flora, will you? — 

eh ! eh ! eh ! 
Flo. Will I what ? 
GuL. Tarry a little .'' 
Flo. {smili?ig). Kind Master Gull 
crammer, 
How can you ask me aught so unbecoming ? 
GuL. Oh, fie, fie, fie ! — Believe me, 
Mistress Flora, 
'Tis not for that — but being guided 

through 
Such dreary galleries, stairs, and suites of 

rooms. 
To this same cubicle, I'm somewhat lotb 





/£ 




552 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



To bid adieu to pleasant company. 
Flo. a flattering compliment ! — In 

plain truth, you are frighten'd. 
GuL. What ! frighten'd .'' — I — I — am 

not timorous. 
Flo. Perhaps you've heard this is our 
haunted chamber ? 
But then it is our best — Your Reverence 

knows, 
That in all tales which turn upon a ghost, 
Your traveller belated has the luck 
To enjoy the haunted room — it is a rule : — 
To some it were a hardship, but to you. 

Who are a scholar, and not timorous 

GuL. I did not say 1 was not timorous, 
I said I was not temerarious. — 
I'll to the hall again. 

Flo. You'll do your pleasure, 

But you have somehow moved my father's 

anger, 
And you had better meet our playful 

Owlspiegle — 
So is our goblin call'd — then face Lord 
Oswald. 
GuL. Owlspiegle? — 
It is an uncouth and outlandish name, 
And in mine ears sounds fiendish. 

Flo. Hush, hush, hush ! 
Perhaps he hears us now — (in an under 

tone) — A merry spirit ; 
None of your elves that pinch folks black 

and blue, 
For lack of cleanliness. 

GuL. As for that, Mistress Flora, 
My taffeta doublet liatli been duly brush'd 
My shirt hebdomadal put on this morning. 
Flo. Why, you need fear no goblins. 
But this Owlspiegle 
Is of another class ; — yet has his frolics ; 
Cuts hair, trims beards, and plays amid 

his antics 
The office of a sinful mortal barber. 
Such is at least the rumor. 

GuL. He will not cut my clothes, or 
scar my face. 
Or draw my blood ? 

Flo. Enormities like these 

Were never charged against him. 
GuL. .-^nd. Mistress Flora, would you 
smile on me, 
If, prick'd by the fond hope of your ap- 
proval, 
I should endure this venture .'' 

Flo. I do hope 

I shall have cause to smile. 

GuL. Well ! in that hope 



I will embrace the achievement for thy 

sake. \_She is going. 

Yet, stay, stay, stay 1 — on second thoughts 

I will not— 
I've thought on it, and will the mortal 

cudgel 
Rather endure than face the ghostly razor 1 
Your crab-tree's tough but blunt,— your 

razor's polish'd. 
But, as the proverb goes, 'tis cruel sharp. 
I'll to thy father, and unto his pleasure 
Submit these destined shoulders. 

Flo. But you shall not — 

Believe me, sir, you shall not ; he is 

desperate, 
And better far be trimm'd by ghost or 

goblin. 
Than by my sire in anger ; — there are stores 
Of hidden treasure, too, and Heaven 

knows what. 
Buried among these ruins — you shall stay. 
(^Apart.) And if indeed there be such 

sprite as Owlspiegle, 
And, lacking him, that thy fear plague 

thee not 
Worse than a goblin, I have miss'd my 

purpose, 
W'hich else stands good in either case.^ — 

Good-night, sir. 

\Exi', and double locks the door, 
GuL. Nay, hold ye, hold! Nay, gentle 

Mistress Flora, 
Wherefore this ceremony ? She has lock'd 

me in, 
And left me to the goblin ! — {Listening.') 

So, so, so ! 
I hear her light foot trip to such a distance. 
That I believe the castle's breadth divides 

me 
From human company. — I'm ill at ease — 
But if this citadel (Laying his ha7id on his 

stomach) were better victual'd, 
It would be better mann'd. 

\^Sits down and drinhs. 
She has a footstep light, and taper aiikie. 

[^Chtickles. 
Aha ! that ankle ! yet, confound it too, 
But for those charms Melchisedek had been 
Snug in his bed at Mucklewhame — 1 say. 
Confound her footstep, and her instep too. 
To use a cobbler's phrase. — There I was 

quaint. 
Now, wliat to do in this vile circumstance. 
To watcli or go to bed, I can't determine ; 
Were I a-bed, the ghost mig'nt catch me 

napping, 






THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



And if I watch, my terrors will increase 
As ghostly hours approach. I'll to my bed 
E'en in my taffeta doublet, shrink my head 
Beneath the clothes— leave the lamp burn- 
ing there, 
And trust to fate the issue. 

\Sets it oil the table. 
\_He lays aside his cloak, and 
brushes it, as from habit, start- 
ing at every motnent ; tics a nap- 
kin over his head ; then shrinks 
beneath the bed clothes. He 
starts 071 ce or twice, and at 
length seems to go to sleep. A 
bell tolls ONE. He leaps up in 
his bed, 
GUL. I had just coax'd myself to sweet 
forgetfulness, 
And that confounded bell— I hate all bells, 
Except a dinner-bell— and vet I lie, too,— 
I love the bell that soon shall tell the parish 
Of Gabblegoose, Melchisedek's incum- 
bent — 
And shall the future minister of Gabble- 
goose, 
Whom his parishioners will soon require 
To exorcise their ghosts, detect their 

witches, 
Lie shivering In his bed for a pert goblin. 
Whom, be he switch'd or cocktail'd, horn'd 

or poli'd, 
A few tight Hebrew words will soon send 

packing .' 
Tush ! I will rouse the parson up within me, 

And bid defiance {A distant noise). 

In the name of Heaven, 
What sounds are these .?— O Lord ! this 
comes of rashness ! I 

\^Dra~cvs his head down tinder the 
bed-cloihcs. 




Owls. 



COCKL. 

Owls. 
Both. 

CocKL. 



The Papists have the better of us there,— 
Ihey have their Latin prayers, cut and 

dried. 
And pat for such occasion.— I can think 
On naught but the vernacular. 

Cockledemoy ! 
My boy, my boy, 

We'll sport us here — 
Our gambols play, 
Like elve and fay ; 
And domineer, 
Laugh, frolic, and frisk, till the 
morning appear. 
Lift latch— open clasp — 
Shoot bolt — and burst hasp ! 

\The door opens with violence. 
Enter Blackthorn as Owl- 
SPlRGhU, fajitastit ally dressed as 
a Spanish Barber, tall, thin, ema- 
ciated, and ghostly, Katleen, 
as Cockledemoy, attends as his 
P'tge. All their tnanners, tones' 
and motions, are fantastic, as 
those of Goblins. They tnake two 
or three times the circuit of the 
Room, without seeming to see 
GuLLCRAMMER. They then re- 
sume their Chaimt, or Recitative. 

Owls. 



CoCKL. 

Owls. 



Duet without, between Owlspiegle and 

Cockledemoy. 
Owls. Cockledemoy, 

My boy, my boy. 
CocKL. Here, father, here. 

Owls. Nowthe pole-star's red and burn- 
ing, 
And the witch's spindle turning. 
Appear, appear ! 
G\S\.. (who has again raised himself, and 
listened with great terror 'to the 
Duet)— 
I have heard of the devil's dam before 
But never of his child. Now Heaven 
deliver me. 



L^^ 



Cockledemoy ! 
My boy, my boy, 
What wilt thou do that will give 

thee joy .■* 
Wilt thou ride on the midnight 

owl ? 
No; for the weather is stormy 
and foul. 
Cockledemoy ! 
My boy, my boy. 
What wilt thou do that can give 

thee jov ? 
With a needle for a sword, and a 

thimble for a hat, 
Wilt thou fight a traverse with 
the castle cat .' 
Cockl Oh no ! she has claws, and I like 
not that. 

GuL. I see the devil is a doting father. 
And spoils his children— 'tis the surest way 
To make cursed imps of them. They see 

me not — 
What will they think on next? It must be 

own'd, 
They have a dainty ciioice of occupations. 



il 









/rrm 




1 ' . "^ M 


■^ 


V 


/><■ 




1 3 'c h: 














554 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 


..J 
m 




Owls. Cockledemov ! 


At an usurer's funeral I stole fro 




My boy, my boy, 


the heir. 






J [^ What shall we do that can give 


\^Drops something from a vial, ai 






I thee joy? 


going to make suds. 


3 




Shall we go seek for a cuckoo's 


This dewdrop I caught from one 






nest. 


eye of his mother. 






CoCKL. That's best, that's best 1 


Which wept while she ogled the 






Both. About, about, 


parson with t'other 






Like an elvish scout, 


Both. For all of the humbug, the bite, 






The cuckoo's a gull, and we'll soon 


and the buz. 






find him out. 


Of the make-believe world, be- 






T/tey search the room with mops 


comes forfeit to us 






and mows. At length Cockle- 


Owls, (arranging the lather atid the 






DEMOY jumps on the bed. GuLL- 


basin ) — 






CRAMMER raises himself half itp, 


My soap-ball is of the mild alkali 






supporting himself by his hands. 


made, 






CocKLEDEMOY does the same, 


Which the soft dedicator employs 






and grins at hi}n, then skips 


in his trade ; 






from the bed, atld runs to OWL- 


And it froths with the pith of a 






SPIEGLE. 


promise, that's sworn 






CocKL. I've found the nest, 


By a lover at night, and forgot on 






.'^nd m it a guest, 


the morn. 






With a sable cloak and a taffeta 


Both. For all of the humbug, the bite, 






vest ; 


and the buz, 






He must be wash'd, and tnmm'd, 


Of the make-believe world, be- 






and dress'd, 


comes forfeit to us. 






To please the eyes he loves the 


Halloo, halloo, 






best. 


The blackcock crew. 






DwLS. That's best, that's best 


Thrice shriek'd hath the owl. 






Both. He must be shaved, and trimm'd, 


thrice croak'd hath the raven, 






and dress'd, 


Here ho Master Gullcrammer, 






To please the eyes he loves the 


rise and be shaven ? 






best. 








[ They arrange shaving things on 


Da capo 






the table, and sing as they prepare 


GUL {who has been observing them). 






them 


I'll pluck a spirit up , they're merry gob- 






Both. Know that all of the humbug, the 


lins, 






bite, and the buz, 


And will deal mildly I will soothe their 






Of the make-believe world, be- 


humor , 






comes forfeit to us 


Besides, my beard lacks trimming. 






Owls, (sharpening Ins ?-azor) — 


\He rises from kn bed. and ad- 






The sword this is made of was lost 


vances with great symjytoms of 






in a fray 


trepidation, but affecting an air 






By a fop, who first bullied and then 


of composure. The Goblins re- 






ran away ; 


ceive htm with fantastic cere- 






And the strap, from the hide of a 


tnony. 






lame racer, sold 


Gentlemen, 'tis your will I should be 






By Lord Match, to his friend, for 


trimm'd — 






some hundreds in gold. 


E'en do your pleasure. 






Both. For all of the humbug, the bite, and 


\They point to a seat — he sits. 






the buz. 


Think, howsoe'er. 






. Of the make-beheve world, be- 


Of me as one who hates to see his 






r: comes forfeit to us. 


blood ; «^ r 






CoCKh. (placing the napkin)— 


Therefore I do beseech you, signior. 






And this cambric napkin, so white 


Be gentle in your craft. 1 know those 






and so fair, 


barbers. 






-rrr 




s 


% 




J I 

4*" 




^ - 


I' 1 c 


-^ 


^ IX^ 


v4 


«— i — ^ 5 


L-= 


Zj^ 


1 




THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



One would have harrows driven across his 

visnomy, 
Rather than they should touch it with a 

razor 

OwLSPiEGLE shaves Gullcrammer uiJiile 

COCKLEDEMOY singS. 

Father never started hair, 
Shaved too close, or left too bare — 
Father's razor slips as glib 
As from courtly tongue a fib. 
Whiskers, mustache, he can trim m 
Fashion meet to please the women ; 
Sharp's his blade, perfumed his lather ! 
Happy those are trimm'd by father ! 
GuL. That's a good boy. I love to hear 
a child 
^itand for his father, if he were the devil. 

\^He motions to rise. 
Craving your pardon, sir. — Wliat ! sit 

again ? 
My hair lacks not your scissors. 

[OwLSPiEGLE insists on his sitting. 
Nay, if you're peremptory, I'll ne'er dis- 
pute it, 
Nor eat the cow and choke upon the tail — 
E'en trim me to your fashion. 

fOwLSPlEGLE cuts his hair, and 
shaves his head, ridiculously. 
CoCKLEDEMOY (sings as before). 
Hair-breadth 'scapes, and hair-breadth 

snares, 
Hair-brain'd follies, ventures, cares, 
Part when father clips your hairs. 
If there is a hero frantic, 
Or a lover too romantic ; — 
If threescore seeks second spouse, 
Or fourteen lists lover's vows. 
Bring them here— for a Scotch boddle, 
Owlspiegle shall trim their noddle. 

L Tlicy take the napkin from about 
Gullcrammer's ;i<7c^. He makes 
bows of ackno-wledgment, 7vhich 
they return fantastically, and 
stng — 
Thrice crow'd hath the blackcock, thrice 

croak'd hath the raven, 
And Master Melchisedek Gullcrammer's 
shaven ! 

GuL. My friends, you are too musical for 

me, 
But though I cannot cope with yon in song, 
I would, in humble prose, inquire of 

you. 
If that you will permit me to acquit 




Even with the barber's pence the barber's 
service .? [ They shake their heads. 

Or if there is aught else that I can do for 
you. 

Sweet Master Owlspiegle, or your lovin? 
child, 

The hopeful Cockle'moy ? 

CocKL. Sir, you have been trimm'd of 
late. 
Smooth's your chin, and bald your pate ; 
Lest cold rheums should work you harm, 
Here's a cap to keep you warm. 

GuL. Welcome, as Fortunatus' wishing 
cap, 
For 'twas a cap that I was wishing for. 
(There I was quaint in spite of mortal 
terror.) 

\_As he puts on the cap, a pair oj 
ass^s ears disengage themselves. 
Upon my faith, it is a dainty head-dress. 
And might become an alderman! — Thanks, 

sweet Monsieur, 
Thou'rt a considerate youth. 

[Both Goblins bow with ceremony 
to Gullcrammer, who returns 
their sahctatton. Owlspiegle 
descejids by the trap-door. 
Cockledemoy springs out at 
windoiv. 

SONG {without). 
Owls. Cockledemoy, my hope, my care, 

Where art thou now, O tell mewhere.'' 
CocKL. Up m tlie sky, 

On the bonny dragonfly, 
Come, father, come you too — 
She has four wings and strength enow, 
And her long body has room for two. 
GuL. Cockledemoy now is a naughty 
brat — 
Would have the poor old stiff-rump'd devil, 

his father, 
Peril his fiendish neck. All boys are 
thoughtless. 

SONG. 

Owls. Which way didst thou take .' 
CocKL. I have fallen in the lake — 

Help, father, lor Beelzebub's sake. 
GuL. The imp is drown'd — a strange 
death for a devil ! 
O, may all boys take warning, and be 

civil ; 
Respect their loving sires, endure a chiding, 
Nor roam by night on dragonflies a-ndingl 







SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



CocKL. {stngs). Now merrily, merrily, 
row 1 to shore, 
My bark is a bean-shell, a straw for 
an oar. 
Owl. {sings). My life, my joy, 

My Cockledemoy ! 
GuL. I can bear this no longer — thus 
children are spoii'd. 
{Stiikcs into the iinte.) — Master Owl- 

spiegle, hoy ! 
He deserves to be whipp'd, little Cockle- 
demoy 1 
[ Their voices are heard as if dying away. 
GuL. They're gone I — Now, am I 
scared, or am I not ? 
I think the very desperate ecstasy 
Of fear has given me courage. This is 

strange, now ! 
When they were here, I was not half so 

frighten'd 
As now they are gone — they were a sort of 

company. 
What a strange thing is use ! — A horn, a 

claw, 
The tip of a fiend's tail, was wont to scare 

me ; — 
Now am I with the devil hand and glove; 
His soap has lather'd, and his razor shaved 

me ; 
I've joined him in a catch, kept time and 

tune. 
Could dine with him, nor ask for a long 

spoon ; 
And if 1 keep not better company, 
What will become of me when 1 shall die ? 

[Exit. 
Scene HI. 
A Gothic Hall, waste and runiotts. The 
moonlight is at times seeti through the 
shafted 7vindoivs. Enter Katleen 
and Blackthorn — They have throwji 
off the more ludicrous parts of their dis- 
guise. 

Kat. This way — this way. Was ever 

fool so gull'd ! 
Bla. I play'd the barber better than I 
thought for. 
Well, I've an occupation in reserve, 
When the long-bow and merry musket 

fail me. — 
But, hark ye, pretty Katleen. 

Kat What should I hearken to ? 

Bla. Art thou not afraid. 
In these wild halls while playing feigned 
goblins, 



That we may meet with real ones .? 

Kat. Not a jot 

My spirit is too light, my heart too bold. 
To fear a visit from the other world. 

Bla. But is not this the place, the very 
hall 
In which men say that Oswald's grand- 
father, 
The black Lord Erick, walks his penance 

round .'' 
Credit me, Katleen, these half-moulder'd 

columns 
Have in their ruin something very fiendish, 
And, if you'll take an honest friend's ad- 
vice, 
The sooner that you change their shatter'd 

splendor 
For the snug cottage that I told you of, 
Believe me, it will prove the blither dwell- 
ing. 
Kat. If I e'er see that cottage, honest 
Blackthorn, 
Believe me, it shall be from other motive 
Than fear of Erick's spectre. 

[A rustling soitnd is heard 
Bla I heard a rustling sound — 

Upon my life, there's something in the liall, 
Katleen, besides us two ! 

Kat. a yeoman thou, 

A forester, and frighten'd ! I am sorry 
I gave the fool's-cap to poor Gullciammer, 
And let thy head go bare. 

[ The same rushing sound is repeated. 
Bl.^. Why, are you mad, or hear you 

not the sound .' 
Kat. And if I do, I take small heed of 
It. 
Will you allow a maiden to be bolder 
Than you, with beard on chin and sword 
at girdle ? 
Bla. Nay, if I had my sword, I would 
not care ; 
Though I ne'er heard of master of defence, 
.So active at his weapon as to brave 
The devil, or a ghost — See! see! see 
yonder ! 

[A Figure is imperfectly seen be- 
tween tivo of the pillars. 
Kat There's something moves, that's 
certain, and tiie moonlight. 
Chased by the flitting gale, is too imperfect 
To show its form ; but, in the name of God, 
I'll venture on it boldly. 

Bla. Wilt thou so? 

Were I alone, now, I were strongly 
tempted 







THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



557 



To trust my heels for safety ; but witl\ 

thee, 
Be it fiend or fairy, I'll take risk to meet it. 
Kat. It stands full in our path, and we 
must pass it, 
Or tarry here all night. 

Bla. In its vile company ? 

\As they advance towards the 

Figure, it is more plainly dis- 

tingttished, which tnight, I think, 

be contrived by raising successive 

screens of crape. The Figure is 

wrapped in a long robe, like the 

mantle of a Hermit, or Palmer. 

Pal. Ho ! ye who thread by night these 

wildering scenes. 

In garb of those who long have slept in 

death, 

Fear ye the company of those you imitate ? 

Bla. This is the devil, Katleen, let us 

fly ! [Runs off. 

Kat. I will not fly — why should 1 ? My 

nerves shake 

To look on this strange vision, but my 

heart 
Partakes not the alarm. — If thou dost 

come in Heaven's name. 
In Heaven's name art thou welcome ! 

Pal. I come, by Heaven permitted. 
Quit this castle : 
There is a fate on't — if for good or evil, 
Brief space shall soon determine. In that 

fate. 
If good,- by lineage thou canst nothing 

claim. 
If evil, much may'st suffer.- -Leave these 
precincts. 
Kat. Whate'er thou art, be answer'd — 
Know, 1 will not 
Desert the kinswoman who train'd my 

youth ; 
Know, that I will not quit my friend, my 

Flora ; 
Know, that I will not leave the aged man 
Whose roof has shelter'd me. This is my 

resolve — 
If evil come, I aid my friends to bear it ; 
If good, my part shall be to see them 

prosper, 
A portion in their happiness from which 
No fiend can. bar me. 

Pal. Maid, before thy courage. 

Firm built on innocence, even beings of 

nature, 
More powerful far than thine, give place 
and way ; 



Take then this key. and vv'ait the event 
with courage. 

[He drops the hey.— He disappears 
gradually — the moonlight faiVuig 
at the same time. 
Kat. {after a patise). Whate'er it was. 
'tis gone ! My head turns round — 
The blood that lately fortified my heart 
Now eddies in full torrent to my brain, 
And makes wild work with reason. I will 

haste. 
If that my steps can bear me so far safe, 
To living company. What if I meet it 
Again in the long aisle, or vaulted passage ? 
And if I do, the strong support that bore 

me 
Through this appalling interview, again 
Shall strengthen and uphold me. 

\_As she steps forward, she stumbles 
over the key. 
What's this.'' The key? — there may be 

mystery in't. 
I'll to my kinswoman, when this dizzy fit 
Will give me leave to choose my way aright. 
[She sits down exhausted. 

Re-C7iter BLACKTHORN, with a drawn 
sword and torch. 

Bla. Katleen ! — what, Katleen ! — ■ 
What a wretch was I 

To leave lier! — Katleen I — I am weapon'd 
now. 

And fear nor dog nor devil, — She replies 
not! 

Beast tliat I was ! — nay, worse than beast 1 
The stag. 

As timorous as he is, fights for his hind. 

What's to be done .' — I'll seairh this cursed 
castle 

From dungeon to the battlements ; if I find 
her not, 

I'll fling me from the highest pinnacle — 
Katleen (%vho has some^vhat gathered 
her spirits in consequence of his en- 
trance, comes behind and touches him ; 
he starts). Brave sir ! 

I'll spare you that rash leap — You're a 
bold woodsman ! 

Surely I hope that from this night hence- 
forward 

You'll never kill a hare, since j'ou're akin 
to them. 

O I could laugh — but that my head's so 
dizzy. 
Bla. Lean on me, Katleen — By niy 
honest word 




w 



d 




ss^ 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORICS. 



I thought you close behind — I was sur- 
prised, 

Not a jot frightened. 

Kat. Thou art a fool to ask me to thy 
cottage, 

And then to show me at what slight ex- 
pense 

Of manhood I might master tliee and it. 
Bla. I'll take the risk of that — This 
goblin business 

Came rather unexpectedly ; the best horse 

Will start at sudden sights. Try me again, 

And if I prove not true to bonny Katleen, 

Hang me in mine own bowstring. 

\_Exettnt. 

Scene IV. 
The Scene returns to the Apartment at the 
beginning of Act Sccojid. Oswald 
and Durward are discovered with 
Eleanor, Flora, and Leonard — 
Durward sliuts a Prayer-book, which 
he seems to have been reading. 

DuR. 'Tis true— the difference betwixt 
the churches, 
Which zealots love to dwell on, to the wise 
Of either flock are of far less importance 
Than those great truths to which all 

Christian men 
Subscribe with equal reverence. 

Osw. We thank thee, father, for the 
holy office, 
Still best performed when the pastor's 

tongue 
Is echo to his breast : of jarring creeds 
It ill beseems a layman's tongue to 

speak — 
Where have you stow'd yon prater ? 

\To Flora. 
Flo. Safe in the goblin-chamber. 
Ele. ■ The goblin-chamber ! 

Maiden, wert thou frantic? — if his Rever- 
ence 
Have suffer'd harm by waspish Owlspiegle, 
Be sure thou shalt abye it. 

Flo. Here he comes. 

Can answer for himself ! 

£;?/^r Gullcrammer in the fashion in 
■which Owlspiegle had put him ; hav- 
ing the fool's-cap on his head, and toxvel 
about his neck, fy^c. His manner through 
the scene is wild and extravagant, as if 
the fright had a little affected his brain. 
DuR. A goodly spectacle! — Is there 
such a goblin ? 



(To Osw.) Or has sheer terror made him 
such a figure ? 
Osw. There is a sort of wavering tra- 
dition 

Of a malicious imp who teased all 
strangers ; 

My father wont to call him Owlspiegle. 
(Jul. Who talks of Owlspiegle .'' 

He is an honest fellow for a devil. 

So is his son. the hopeful Cockle'mo}'. 

(Sings.) ".My hope, my joy, 

My Cockledemoy ! " 

Leo. The fool's bewitch'd — the goblin 
hath furnish'd him 
A cap which well befits his reverend wis- 
dom. 
Flo. If I could think he had lost his 
slender wits, 
I should be sorry for the trick they play'd 
him. 
Leo. O fear him not ; it were a foul re- 
flection 
On any fiend of sense and reputation. 
To filch such petty wares as his poor 
brains. 
DuR. W'hat saw'st thou, sir? — what 

heard'st thou ? 
GuL. \vhat was't I saw and heard? 
That which old graybeards. 
Who conjure Hebrew into Anglo-Saxon, 
To cheat starved barons with, can little 
guess at. 
Flo. If he begin so roundly -with my 
father. 
His madness is not like to save his bones. 
GuL. Sirs, midnight came, and with it 
came the goblin. 
I had reposed me after some brief study ; 
But as the soldier, sleeping in the trench. 
Keeps sword and musket by him, so I had 
My little Hebrew manual prompt for ser- 
vice. 
Flo. Sausagian soused-face ; that much 
of your Hebrew 
Even I can bear in memory. 

GuL. We counter'd, 

The goblin and myself, even in mid- 
chamber 
And each stepp'd back a pace, as 'twere 

to study 
The foe he had to deal with ! — I bethought 

me. 
Ghosts ne'er have the first word, and so I 

took it, 
And fired a volley of round Greek at him. 



^" 






THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



559 



He stood his ground, and answerd in the 

Synac ; 
I flank'd my Greek with Hebrew, and 

i-ompell'd him — \^A noise heard , 

Osw. Peace, idle prater ! — Hark — what 

sounds' are these ? 
Amid the growling of the storm without, 
I hear strange notes of music, and the 

clash 
Of coursers' trampling feet. 

Voices {without). We come, dark riders 

of the night, 
And flit before the dawning light ; 
Plill and valley, far aloof. 
Shake to hear our chargers' hoof ; 
But not a foot-stamp on the green 
At morn shall show where we have 
been. 

Osw. These must be revellers belated — 
Let them pass on ; the ruiu'd halls of 

Devorgoil 
Open to no such guests. — 

\Flourish of trjimpefs at a distance, 
then nearer. 

They sound a summons ; 
What can they lack at this dead hour of 

night .? 
Look out, and see their number, and their 
bearing. 
Leo. {goes up to the window) — - 
'Tis strange — one single shadowy form 

alone 
Is hovering on the drawbridge — far apart 
Flit through the tempest banners, horse, 

and riders, 
In darkness lost, or dimly seen by light- 
ning. — 
Hither the figure moves — the bolts re- 
volve — 
The gate uncloses to him. 

Ele. Heaven protect us ! 

The Palmer enters — Gullcrammer 

runs off. 
Osw. Whence, and what art thou? for 

what end come hither .' 
Pal. I come from a far land, where 
the storm howls not, 
And tlie sun sets not, to pronounce to thee, 
Oswald of Devorgoil, thy house's fate. 
DuR. I charge thee, in the name we 

late have kneel'd to — • 

Pal. Abbot of Lanercost, I bid thee 
peace ! 
Uninterrupted let me do mine errand : 



Baron of Devorgoil, son of the bold, the 

proud, 
The warlike and the mighty, wherefore 

wear'st thou 
The habit of a peasant ? Tell me, where- 
fore 
Are thy fair halls thus waste — thy cham- 
bers bare? — 
Where are the tapestries, where the con- 

quer'd banners, 
Trophies, and glided arms, that deck'd 

the walls 
Of once proud Devorgoil ? 

\He advances., and places himself 

where the Annor hung, so as to 

be jiearly in the centre of the 

Scene. 

DuR. Whoe'er thou art — if thou dost 

know so much, 

Needs must thou know 

Osw. Peace! I will answer here ; to me 
he spoke — 
Mysterious stranger, briefly I reply : 
A peasant's dress befits a peasant's for- 
tune ; 
And 'twere vain mockery to array these 

walls 
In trophies, of whose memory naught re- 
mains, 
.Save that the cruelty outvied the valor 
Of those who wore them, 

P.'\L. Degenerate as thou art, 

Know'st thou to whom thou say'st this 1 

\_He drops his maiitle, and is dis- 
covered armed as nearly as may 
be to the suit which hung on the 
-vail ; all express terror. 
OsAV. It is himself — the spirit of mine 

Ancestor ! 
Eri. Tremble not, son, but hear me ! 
\H'e strikes the wall ; it opens, ajid 
discovers the Treasure-Chamber . 
There lies piled 
The wealth I brought from wasted Cum- 
berland, 
Enougli to reinstate thy ruin'd fortunes. — 
Cast from thine high-born brows that peas- 
ant bonnet, 
Throw from thy noble grasp the peas- 
ant's staff — 
O'er all, withdraw thine hand from that 

mean mate. 
Whom in an hour of reckless desperation 
Thy fortunes cast thee on. This do, 
And be as great as e'er was Devorgoil, 
When Devorgoil was richest ! 






56o 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Dor. Lord Oswald, thou art tempted 
by a fiend, 

Who doth assail thee on thy weakest 
side, — 

Thy pride of lineage, and thy love of 
grandeur. 

Stand fast — resist — contemn his fatal 
offers ! 
Ele. Urge him not, father ; If the sacri- 
fice 

Of such a wasted woe-worn wretch as I 
am 

Can save him from the abyss of misery. 

Upon wliose verge he's tottering, let me 
wander 

An unacknowledged outcast from his 
castle, 

Even to the humble cottage I was born in. 
Osw. No, Ellen, no— it is not thus they 
part, 

Whose hearts and souls, disasters borne in 
common 

Have knit together, close as summer sap- 
lings 

Are twined in union by the eddying tem- 
pest.^ 

Spirit of Erick, while thou bear'st his 
shape, 

I'll answer with no ruder conjuration 

Thy impious counsel, other than with these 
words. 

Depart, and tempt me not I 
Eri. Then Fate will have her course. — 
Fall, massive grate. 

Yield them the tempting view of these rich 
treasures. 

But bar them from possession ! {A port- 
cullis falls before the door of the Treas- 
ure-Chamber.) Mortals, hear ! 

No hand may ope that gate, except the 
heir 

Of plunder'd Aglionby. whose mighty 
wealth, 

Ravish'd in evil hour, lies yonder piled ; 

And not his hand prevafls without the key 

Of Black Lord Erick. Brief space is given 

To save proud Devorgoil — so wills high 
Heaven. [ Thunder : he disappears. 
DUR. Gaze not so wildly; you have 
stood the trial 

That his commission bore, and Heaven 
designs, 

[f I may spell his will, to rescue Devorgoil 

Even by the Heir of Aglionby— Behold 
him 

In that young forester, unto whose hand 



Those bars shall yield the treasures of his 

house. 
Destined to ransom yours. — Advance, 

young Leonard, 
And prove the adventure. 

Leo. {advances, and attempt's the grate). 
It is fast 
As is the tower, rock-seated. 

Osw. We will fetch other means, and 
prove its strength, 
Nor starve in poverty, with wealth before 
us. 
DuR. Think what the vision spoke ; 
The key — the fated key 

Enter Gu LLC rammer. 
GuL. A key? — I say a quay is what v/e 
want. 
Thus by the learn'd orthographized — 

O, u, a, y. 
The lake is overflow'd ! — a quay, a boat. 
Oars, punt, or sculler, is all one to me ! — 
We shall be drown'd, good people ! ! I 

Enter Katleen and Blackthorn. 

Kat. Deliver us ! 

Haste, save yourselves — the lake is rising 

fast. 
Bla. 'T has risen my bow's height in 

the last five minutes, 
And still is swelling strangely. 

GuL. {who has stood astonished npon 

S'eeing them) — 
We shall be drown'd without your kind 

assistance. 
Sweet Master Owlspiegle, your dragonfly — 
Your straw, your bean-stalk, gentle 

Cockle'moy ! 
Lf.o. {looking from the shot-hole). 
'Tif true, by all that's fearful. The proud 

lake 
Peers, like ambitious tyrant, o'er his 

bounds, 
And soon will whelm the castle — even the 

drawbridge 
Is under water now. 

Kat. Let us escape ! Why stand you 

gazing there ? 
DuR. Upon the opening of that fatal 

grate 
Depends the fearful spell that now entraps 

us. 
The key of Black Lord Erick — ere we 

find it. 
The castle will be whelm'd beneath the 

waves. 






THE HOUSE OF ASPEN. 



S6l 



And we shall perish in it ! 

Kat. {giving the key\ Here, prove 
this ; 
A chance most strange and fearful gave it 
me. 

[Oswald puts if into the lock, 
and attempts to turn it — a loud 
clap of thunder. 
Flo. The lake still rises faster. — Leo- 
nard, Leonard, 
Canst thou not save us ! 

[Leonard tries the lock — it opens 
■u'ith a violent noise, and the 
Portcullis rises. A lo7td straiti 
of wild music— There tnay be a 
Chorus here. 
[Oswald enters the apartment, atid 
brings out a scroll. 
Leo. The lake is ebbing with as won- 
drous haste 
A-8 late it rose — the drawbridge is left dry ! 

Osw. This may explain the cause — 
(Gullcrammer offers to take it.) But 

soft you, sir, 
We'll not disturb your learning for the 

matter ; 
Yet, since you've borne a part in this 

strange drama, 
You shall not go unguerdon'd. Wise or 

learn'd. 
Modest or gentle, Heaven alone can make 

thee, 
Being so much otherwise ; but from this 

abundance 
Thou shalt have that shall gild thine 
ignorance, 



Exalt thy base descent, make thy pre- 
sumption 
Seem modest confidence, and find thee 

hundreds 
Ready to swear that same fool's cap of 

thine 
Is reverend as a mitre. 

GuL. Thanks, mighty baron, now no 

more a bare one 1 
I will be quaint with him, for all his 

quips. [Aside 

Osw. Nor shall kind Katleen lack 
Her portion in our happiness. 

Kat. Thanks, my good lord, but Kat- 

leen's fate is fix'd — 
There is a certain valiant forester. 
Too much afear'd of ghosts to sleep 

anights 
In his lone cottage, without one to guard 

him. — 
Leo. If I forget my comrade's faithful 

friendship. 
May I be lost to fortune, hope, and love ! 
DuR. Peace, all ! and hear the blessing 

which this scroll 
Speaks unto faith, and constancy, and 

virtue : — 

" No more this castle's troubled guest, 
Dark Erick's spirit hath found rest. 
The storms of angry Fate are past, 
For Constancy defies their blast. 
Of Devorgoil the daughter free 
Shall wed the heir of Aglionby ; 
Nor ever more dishonor soil 
The rescued house of Devorgoil ! " 



THE HOUSE OF ASPEN. 



A TRAGEDY, 



ADVERTISEMENT, 
This attempt at dramatic composition was executed nearly thirty years since, when the mag- 
nificent works of Goethe and Schiller were for the first time made known to the Britisli public, 
and received, as many now alive must remember, with universal enthusiasm. Wliat we admire 
■ we usually attempt to imitate ; and the author, not trusting to his own efforts, borrowed the 
substance of the story and a part of the diction from a dramatic romance called " Der Heilige 
Vehme " (the Secret Tribunal), which fills the sixth volume of the " Sagen der Vorzeit " {Tales 
of Antiquity), by Beit Weber. The drama must be lermed rather a rifacimento of the original 
than a translation, since the whole is compressed, and the incidents and dialogue occasionally 
much varied. The imitator is ignorant of the real name of his ingenious contemporary, and has 
been mformed that of Beit Weber is fictitious.* 

* George Wachter, who published various works under the pseudonym of ^eii IVeber, 
was born in 1763, and died in 1S37. — Ed 







562 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The late Mr. John Kemble atone time had some desire to bring out the play at Drury-Laiie, 
then adorned by himself and his matchless sister, who were to have supported the characters of 
the unhappy son and mother ; but great objections appeared to this proposal. There was dan- 
ger that the mainspring o£ the story, — the binding engagements formed by members of the secret 
tribunal, — might not be sufficiently felt by an English audience, to whom the nature of that 
singularly mysterious institution was unknown from early association. There was also, accord- 
ing to Mr. Kemble's experienced opinion, too nmch blood, too much of the dire catastrophe of 
Tom Thumb, when all die on the stage. It was, besides, esteemed perilous to place the fifth act 
and the parade and show of the secret conclave at the mercy of underlings and scene-shifters 
who, by a ridiculous motion, gesture, or accent, n'ight turn what should be grave into farce. 

The author, or rather the translator, willingly acquiesced ni this reasoning, and never after- 
wards made any attempt to gain the honor of the buskin. The German taste also, caricatured by 
a number of imitators, who, incapable of copying the sublim.ity of the great masters of the 
school, supplied its place by extravagance and bombast, fell into disrepute, and received a coup 
de grace from the joint efforts of the late lamented Mr. Canning and Mr. Frere. The effect of 
their singularly happy piece of ridicule called " The Rovers," a mock play which appeared m 
the Anti-Jacobin, was, that the German school, with its beauties and its defects, passed com- 
pletely out of fashion, and the following scenes w.ere consigned to neglect and obscurity. Very 
lately, however, the writer chanced to look them over with feelings very different from those of 
the adventurous period of his literary life during which they had been written, and yet with such 
as perhaps a reformed libertine might regard the illegitimate production of an early amour. 
There is something to be ashamed of, certainly ; but, after all, paternal vanitv whispers that 
the child has a resemblance to the father. 

To this it need only be added, that there are in existence so many manuscript copies of the 
following play, that if it should not find its way to the public sooner, it is certain to do so when the 
author can no more have any opportunity of correcting the press, and consequently at greater 
disadvantage than at present. Being of too small a size or consequence for a separate publica- 
tion, the piece is sent as a contribution to the Keepsake, where the demerits maybe hidden 
amid the beauties of more valuable articles. 
Abbotsford, \st April, 1S29. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



RuDiGER, Baron of A spen, an old German warrior, 

George of A?pen, ) ,. ^ t, j- 

Henry ok Aspen, ( ^"'"^^ Rudiger. 

RoDBRic, Count of Mnltingen, cliief of a departvicnt of the Invisible TritnnaJ, an 

liereditary enemy of the family of Aspeti. 
William, Baron of Wolf stein, ally of Count Roderic. 
Bertram of Ebersdorf, brother to the former husband of the Baroness of Aspen, 

disguised as a Minstrel. 
Duke of Bavaria. 

Reynold' f P''^^^"'"'^^^ of the House of Aspen. 
Conrad, Page of Honor to Henry of Aspen. 
Martin, Squire to Georece of Aspeti. 
Hugo, Squire to Count Roderic. 
Peter, an ajicient domestic of Rudiger. 
Father Ludovic, Chaplain to Rudiger. 



ISABBhl-A., formerly married to A rnolf of Ebersdorf, nom 7v if e of Rudiger. 

Gertrude, Isabella's niece, betrothed to Henry. 

Soldiet s, fudges of the Invisible Tribunal, ^t'c, Sr'c. 

Scene. — The Castle of Ebersdorf in Bavaria, the ruins of Grief enhaus, and the adjacent 

counlry. 






THE HOUSE OF ASPEN. 



563 



THE HOUSE OF ASPEN. 



ACT I.— SCENE I. 

An ancient Gothic chamber in the castle of 
Ebersdorf. Spears, crossbows, and arms, 
-with the horns of bicff aloes and of deer, 
are hung round the zcall. An antique 
buffet with beakers and stone bottles. j 

Rudiger, Baron of Aspen, and his lady, 
Isabella, are discovered sitting at a large 
oakeit table. 

Rud. A plague upon tliat roan horse ! 
Had he not stumbled with me at the ford 
after our last skirmish, 1 had been now with 
my sons, .-^nd yonder the boys are, hardly 
three miles off, battling with Count Roderic, 
and their father must lie here like a worm- 
eaten manuscript in a convent library 1 Out 
upon it ! Out upon it ! Is it not hard that 
a warrior, who has travelled so many leagues 
to display the cross on the walls of Zion, 
should be now unable to lift a spear before 
his own castle gate ? 

Isa. Dear husband, your anxiety retards 
your recovery. 

Rud. May be so ; but not less than your 
silence and melancholy! Here have 1 sat 
this month, and more, since that cursed fall ! 
Neither hunting nor feasting, nor lance- 
breaking for me! And my sons — George 
enters cold and reserved, as if he had the 
weight of the empire on his shoulders, utters 
by syllables a cold " How is it with you.'" 
and shuts himself up for days in his solitary 
chamber— Henry, my cheerful Henry— 

Isa. Surely, he at least — 

Rud. Even he forsakes me, and skips up 
the tower staircase like lightning to join your 
fair ward, Gertrude, on the battlements. I 
cannot blame him : for, by my knightly faith, 
were I in his place, I think even tliese bruised 
bones would hardly keep me from her side. 
Still, however, here I must sit alone. 

Isa . Not alone, dear husband. Heaven 
knows what I would do to soften your con- 
finement. 

Rud. Tell me not of that, lady. When I 
first knew thee, Isabella, the fair maid of 
Arnheim was the joy ot her companions, 
and breathed life wherever she came. Thy 
father married thee to Arnolf of Ebersdorf 
— not much with thy will, 'tis true — {she 
bides her face.) Nay^forgive me, Isabella 
— but that is over — he died, and the ties be- 
tween us, which thy marriage had broken. 



were renewed — but the sunshine of my 
Isabella's light heart returned no more. 

Isa. (weeping.) Beloved Rudiger, you 
search my very soul ! Why will you recall 
past times — days of spring that can never 
return ? Do I not love thee more tlian evei 
wife loved husband ? 

Rud. (stretches oid his arms — she em- 
braces him.) And therefore art thou evei 
my beloved Isabella. But still, is it not 
true ? Has not thy cheerfulness vanished 
since thou hast become Lady of Aspen ? 
Dost thou repent of thy love to Rudiger ? 

Isa. Alas ! no ! never ! never ! 

Rud. Then why dost thou herd with 
monks and priests, and leave thy old knight 
alone, when, for the first time in his stormy 
life, he has rested for weeks within the walls 
of his castle ? Hast thou committed a crime 
from which Rudiger's love cannot absolve 
thee? 

Isa. O many ! many ! 

Rud. Then be this kiss thy penance. 
And tell me, Isabella, hast thou nDt founded 
a convent, and endowed it with the best of 
thy late husband's lands.? Ay, and with a 
vineyard which I could have prized as well 
as the sleek monks. Dost thou not daily 
distribute alms to twenty pilgrims ? Dost 
thou not cause ten masses to be sung each 
night tor the repose of thy late husband's 
soul ? 

Isa. It will not know repose. 

Rud. Well, well — God's peace be with 
.Arnolf of Ebersdorf ; the mention of him 
makes thee ever sad, though so many years 
have passed since his death. 

Tsa. But at present, dear husband, have 
I not the most just cause for anxiety .■' 
Are not Henry and George, our beloved' 
sons, at this very moment perhaps engaged 
in doubtful contest with our hereditary foe, 
Count Roderic of Maltingen ? 

Riid. Now, there lies the difference ; you 
sorrow that they are in danger. I that 1 
cannot share it with them — Hark ! I hear 
horses' feet on the drawbridge. Go to the 
window, Isabella. 

Isa. (at the window.) It is Wickerd, 
your squire. 

Rud. Then shall we have tidings of 
George and Henry. (Enter Wickerd.) 
How now, Wickerd? Have you come to 
blows yet ? 

Wic. Not yet, noble sir 






i— 5 




r64 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Rud, Not ypt ? — sfiame on the boys' dal- 
lyiii:, — what wait they for ? 

\Vic. The foe is strongly posted, sir 
kniglit, upon the Wolfshill, near the ruins of 
Grietenhaus : therefore your noble son, 
George of Aspen, greets you well, and re- 
quests twenty more men-at-arms, and, after 
they have joined hmi, he hopes, with the aid 
of St. Theodore, to send you news of vic- 
tory. 

Rud. {attempts to rise hastily.) Saddle 
.ny black barb ; I will head them myself. 
{Sits down.) A murrahi on that stumbling 
roan ! I had forgot m\- dislocated bones. 
Call Reynold, Wickerd, and bid him take all 
whom he can spare from defence of the 

castle — ( Wickerd is goitig) and ho ! 

Wickerd, carry with you my black barb, and 
bid George charge upon him. {Exit Wick- 
erd.) Now see, Isabella, if I disregard the 
boy's safety ; I send him the best horse ever 
knight bestrode. When we lay before As- 
calon, indeed, I had a bright bay Persian — 
Thou dost not heed me. 

Isa. Forgive me, dear husband : are not 
our sons in danger ? Will not our sins be 
visited upon them ? Is not their present 
situation 

Rud. Situation ? I know it well : as fair 
a field for open fight as 1 ever hunted over : 
see here — {makes lines on the table) — here 
is tlie ancient castle of Griefenhaus in ruins, 
here the Wolfshill ; and here the marsh on 
the right. 

fsa. The marsh of Griefenhaus ! 

Rud. Yes ; by that the boys must pass. 

fsa. Pass there! {Apart.) Avenging 
Heaven ! thy hand is upon us ! {Exit hastily. 

Rud. Whither now ? Whither now ? She 
is gone. Thus it goes. Peter ! Peter ! (£'«i'd-r 
Peter.) Help me to the gallery, that I may 
see them on horseback. 

[Exit, leaning on Peter, 



Scene II. 

The i finer court of the castle of Ebersdorf ; 
a quadrangle.^ surrounded- ivith Gothic 
buildings ; troopers, follcnvers of Rudi- 
ger, pass and re-pass in haste, as if pre- 
paring for an excursion. 

Wickerd comes forward. 
Wic. What, ho ! Reynold ! Reynold ! 
By our Lady, the spirit of the Seven 

Sleepers is upon him — So ho ! not mounted 

yet ? Reynold ! 



Enter Reynold, 

Rey. Here I here ! A devil choke thy 
bawling ! thinkst thou old Reynold is not 
as ready for a skirmish as thou .'' 

Wic. Nay, nay : I did but jest ; but, by 
my sooth, it were a shame should our 
youngsters have yoked with Count Roderic 
before we graybeards come. 

Rey. Heaven fort end ! Our troopers are 
but saddling their horses ; five minutes 
more, and we are in our stirrups, and then 
let Count Roderic sit fast. 

Wic. A plague on him ! he has ever 
lain hard on the skirts of our noble master. 

Rey. Especially since he was refused the 
hand of our Lady's niece, the pretty Lady 
Gertrude. 

Wic. Ay, marry ! would nothing less 
serve the fox of Maltingen than the lovely 
lamb of our young Baron Henry ! By my 
sooth, Reynold, when I look upon these 
two lovers, they make me full twenty years 
younger ; and when I meet the man that 
would divide them — I say nothing — but let 
him look to it. 

Rey. And how fare our young lords ? 

Wic. Each well in his humor — Baron 
George stern and cold, according to his 
wont, and his brother as cheerful as ever. 

Rey. Well ! — Baron Henry for me. 

Wic. Yet George saved thy life. 

Rey. True — with as much indifference as 
if he had been snatching a chestnut out of 
the fire. Now Baron Henry wept for my 
danger and my wounds. Therefore George 
shall ever command my life, but Henry my 
love. 

Wic. Nay, Baron George shows his 
gloomy spirit even by the choice of a favor- 
ite. 

Rey. Ay — Martin, formerly the squire of 
Arnolf of Ebersdorf, his mother's first hus- 
band. — I marvel he could not have fitted 
himself with an attendant from among the 
faithful followers of his worthy father, 
whom Arnolf and his adherents used to hate 
as the Devil hates holy water. B it Mar- 
tin is a good soldier, and has stood toughly 
by George in many a hard brunt. 

Wic. The knave is sturdy enough, but so 
sulky withal. — I have seen, brother Rey- 
nold, that when Martin showed his moody 
visage at the banquet, our noble mistress 
has dropped the wine she was raising to her 
lips, and exchanged her smiles for a ghastly 
frown, as if sorrow went by sympathy, as 
kissing goes by favor. 






C v 

F^ a 




THE HOUSE OF AS PEAT. 



565 



Rey. His appearance reminds her of her 
first husband, and thou hast well seen that 
makes her ever sad. 

VVtc. Dost thou marvel at that ? She 
was married to Arnolf by a sper.ies of force, 
and they say that before his death he com- 
pelled her to swear never to espouse Ru- 
diger. The priests will not absolve her for 
the breach of that vow, and therefore she is 
troubled in mind. For, d'ye mark me, Rey- 
nold [^Biigle sounds. 

Rey. A truce to your preaching ! To 
horse ! and a blessing on our arms ! 

Wic. St. George grant it I YExeictit. 



Scene III. 

The gaUery of the castls, terminating in a 
large balcony comma.iding a distant 
prospect. — Voices, bugle-horns, kettle- 
drums, trampling of horses, ^c, are 
heard uuithout. 

Rudiger, leaning on Peter, looks front the 
balcony. Gertrude and Isabella arc near 
him. 

Rttd. There they go at length — look, Isa- 
bella 1 look, my pretty Gertrude — these are 
the iron-handed warriors who shall tell 
Roderic what it will cost him to force thee 
from my protection — {Flourish without. 
Rudiger stretches his arms from the bal- 
cony). Go, my children, and God's bless- 
ing with you. Look at my black barb, Ger- 
trude. That horse shall let daylight in 
through a phalanx, were it twenty pikes 
deep. Shame on it that I cannot mount 
him ! Seest thou how fierce old Reynold 
looks ? 

Gcr. I can hardly know my friends in 
their armor. 

\^The bugles and ketth-drunis are 
heard as at a greater distance. 

Rud. Now I could tell every one of their 
names, even at this distance ; ay, and were 
they covered, as I have seen tliem, with 
dust and blood. He on the dapple gray is 
Wickerd — a hardy fellow, but somewhat 
given to prating. That is young Conrad 
who gallops so fast, page to thy Henrv, my 
girl. 

\Bugles, &'c., at a greater distance 
still. 

Ger. Heaven guard them. Alas ! the 
voice of war that calls the blood into your 
cheeks, chills and freezes mine. 



Rud. Say not so. It is glorious, ray giri, 
glorious I See how their armor glistens as 
they wind round yon hill 1 how their spears 
glimmer amid the long train of dust. Harkl 
you can still hear the faint notes of their 
trumpets — {Bugles -eery faint.) — And Ru- 
diger, old Rudigsr with the iron arm, as the 
crusaders used to call me, must remain be- 
hind with the priests and the women. Well ! 
well ! — {Sings.) 

" It was a knight to battle rode, 
And as his war-horse he bestrode." 

Fill me a bowl of wine, Gertrude; and do 
thou, Peter, call the minstrel who came 
hither last night. — (Sings. ) 

" Off rode the horseman, dash, sa, sa ! 
And stroked his whiskers, tra, la la." — 

{Feter goes out. — Rudiger sits down, and 
Gertrude helps him -with wine.) Thanks, 
my love. It tastes ever best from thy hand. 
Isabella, here is glory and victory to our 
boys — {Dri7iks.) — Wilt thou not pledge 
me.'' 

Isa. To their safety, and God grant it ! — 
{Drinks. ) 

Enter Bertram as a miitstrcl, with a boy 
beariftg his harp. — Also Peter. 

Rud. Thy name, minstrel ! 

Ber. Minhold, so please you. 

R2id. Art thou a German ! 

Ber. Yes, noble sir ; and of this prov- 
ince. 

Sing me a song of battle. 

^Bertram sings to the harp. 
Thanks, minstrel : well sung, and 
What sayst thou, Isabella? 

Isa. I marked him not. 

Rud. Nay, in sooth you are too anxious. 
Cheer up. And thou, too, my lovely Ger- 
trude : in a few hours thy Henry shall re- 
turn, and twine his laurels into a garland 
for thy hair. He fights for thee, and h^ 
must conquer. 

Ger. Alas! must blood be spilled for a 
silly maiden ? 

Rud. Surely : for what should knights 
break lances but for honor and ladies' love 
— ha, minstrel ? 

Ber. So please you — also to punish 
crimes. 

Rud. Out upon it ! wouldst have us ex- 
ecutioners, minstrel ? Such work would 



Rud. 



Rud. 
lustilv. 





4^ 




V 

r 



566 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



disgrace our blades. We leave malefactors 
to the Secret Tribunal. 

ha. Merciful God ! Thou hast spoken 
a word Radiger, of dreadful import. 

Gcr. They say that, unknown and invisi- 
ble themselves, these awful judges are ever 
present with the guilty ; that the past and 
the present misdeeds, the secrets of the 
confessional, nay, the very thoughts of the 
heart, are before them ; that their doom is 
as sure as that of fate, the means and exe- 
cutioners unknown. 

Ritd. They say true — the secrets of that 
association, and the names of those w'.io 
compose it, are as inscrutable as the gravt; : 
we only know tiiat it lias taken deep root, and 
spread its branches wide. I sit down each 
day in my hall, nor know how many of these 
secret judges may surround me, all bound 
by the most solemn vow to avenge guilt. 
Once, and but once, a knight, at the earnest 
request and inquiries of the emperor, hinted 
that he belonged to the society : the next 
morning he was lound slain in a forest : the 
poniard was left in the wound, and bore 
this labels" Thus do the invisible judges 
punish treachery." 

Ger. Gracious! aunt, you grow pale. 

Isa. A slight indisposition only. 

Riid. And what of it all 1 We know 
our hearts are open to our Creator : shall 
we fear any earthly inspection ? Come to 
the battlements ; there we shall soonest de- 
scry the return of our warriors. 

\^ExH Rudiger, with Gertrude an.l Peter. 

[sa. Minstrel, send the chaplain hither. 
{Exit Bertram.) Gracious Heaven! the 
guileless innocence of my niece, t!ie manly 
honesty of my upright-hearted Rudiger, be- 
come daily tortures to me. While he was 
engaged in active and stormy exi;lcits, fear 
for his safety, joy whert he reti.rn^d to his 
castle, enabled me to disguise my inward 
anguish from others. But from myself — 
Judges of blood, that lie concealed in noon- 
tide as in midnight, who boast to avenge 
the hidden guilt, and to penetrate the re- 
cesses of the human breast, how blind is 
your penetration, how vain your dagger, and 
your cord, compared to the. conscience of 
the sinner 1 

Enter Fatlier Ludovic. 

Lud. Peace be with 5'ou, lady ! 
Isa. It is not with me : it is thy office to 
bring it. 



Ltid. And the cause is the absence of the 

young knights ? 

Isa. Their absence and their danger.- 

Lud. Daughter, thy hard has been 
stretched cut in bounty to the sick and to 
the needy. Thou hast not denied a shelter 
to the weary, nor a tear to the afflicted. 
Trust in their prayers, and in those of the 
holy convent thou hast founded : peradven- 
ture they will bring back thy children to the 
bosom. 

Isa. Thy brethren cannot pray for me or 
mine. Their vow binds them to pray 
night and day for another — to supplicate, 
without ceasing, the Eternal Mercy for the 
soul of one who — Oh, only Heaven knows 
how much he needs their prayer ! 

Litd. Unbounded is the mercy of 
Heaven. The soul of thy former hus- 
band 

Isa. I charge thee, priest, mention not 
the word. {Apart.) Wretch tliat I am, 
the meanest menial in my train has power 
to goad me to madness ! 

Litd. Hearken to me, daughter; thy 
crime against Arnolf of Ebersdorf cannot 
bear in the eye of Heaven so deep a dye of 
guilt. 

Isa. Repeat that once more; say once 
again that it cannot — cannot bear so deep a 
dye. Prove to me that ages of the bitterest 
penance, that tears of the dearest blood, can 
erase such guilt. Prove but thatXo mo, and 
I will build thee an abbey which shall put 
to shame the fairest fane in Christendom. 

Liid. Nay, nay, daughter, your conscience 
is over tender. .Supposing that, undei 
dread of the stern Arnolf, you swore never 
to marry your present husband, still the ex- 
acting such an oath was unlawful, and thc- 
breach of it venial. 

Isa. {resuming licr composure.') Be it so 
good fatlier : I yield to thy better reason;. 
And now tell me, has thy pious care- 
achieved the task I intrusted to thee ? 

Litd. Of superintending the erection of 
thy new hospital for pilgrims ? 1 have, 
noble lady : and last niglit the minstrel now 
in the castle lodged there. 

/.5-(7. Wherefore came he then to the 
castle ? 

Lud. Reynold brought the commands of 
the Baron. 

Isa. Whence comes he, and what is his 
tale .'' When he sung before Rudiger, I 
thought that long before \ had heard such 
tones — seen such a face 







THE HOUSE OF ASPEN. 



;67 



Liid It is possible you may have seen 
him, lady, for he boasts to have been known 
to Arnolf of Ebersdoif, and to have lived 
formerly in this castle. He inquires much 
after Martin, Arnolt"s squire. 

Isa. Go, Ludovic — go quick, good father, 
seek him out, give him this purse, and bid 
him leave the castle, and speed him on his 
way. 

Ltui May I ask why, noble lady ? 

Isa. Thou art inquisitive, priest : I honor 
the servants of God, but 1 foster not the 
prying spirit of a monk. Begone ! 

Liid. But the Baron, lady, will expect a 
reason why I dismiss his guest 1 

Isa. True, true ^recollecting herself); 
pardon my warmth, good father, I was 
thinking of the cuckoo that grows too big 
for the nest of the sparrow, and strangles 
its foster-mother. Do no such birds roost 
in convent-walls ? 

Liid. Lady, I understand you not. 

Isa. Well, then, say to the Baron, that I 
have dismissed long ago all the attendants 
of the man of whom thou hast spoken, and 
that I wish to have none of them beneath 
my roof. 

Liid. [inqziisitively.) Except Martin? 

Isa. (sliarfly.) Except Martin ! who 
saved the life of my son George I Do as I 
command thee. YExit. 

Manet Ludovic. 
Lud. Ever the same— stern and peremp- 
tory to others as rigorous to herself ; haughty 
even to me, to whom, in another mood, she 
has knelt for absolution, and whose knees 
she has bathed in tears. I cannot fathom 
her. The unnatural zeal with which she 
performs her dreadful penances cannot be 
religion, for shrewdly I guess she believes 
not in their blessed efficacy. Well for her 
that she is the foundress of our convent, 
otherwise we might not have erred in de- 
nouncing her as a heretic ! ]^Exit. 



ACT n.— SCENE L 

.4 woodland prospect. — Through a long 
avcmce, half grotvn ttp by bramhles, are 
discerned in the back-ground the ruins 
of the ancient Castle of Griefcnhaus — 
77/1? distant noise of battle is heard dur- 
ing this scene. 

^'Cfit''r George of Aspen, armed li-ith a lai- 



tle-axe in his hand, as from horseback. 
He supports Martin, and brings him for- 
ward. 

Geo. Lay thee down here, old friend. 
The enemy's horsemen will hardly take 
their way among these brambles, through 
which I have dragged thee. 

Mar. Oil, do not leave me! leave me not 
an instant 1 My moments are now but few 
and I would profit by them. 

Geo. Martin, you forget yourself and me 
— I must back to the field. 

Mar. {attempts to rise.) Then drag me 
back thither also ; I canriot die but in your 
presence — I dare not be alone. Stay, to give 
peace to my parting soul. 

Geo. I am no priest, Martin. {Goitig. ) 

Alar. ( raising himself xvith great pain.) 
Baron George of Aspen, I saved thy life in 
battle : for that good deed, hear me but one 
moment. 

Geo. I hear tliee, my poor friend. (Re- 
turning.) 

Mar. But come close — very close. See'st 
thou, sir knight — this wound I bore for thee 
— and this — and this — dost thou not remem- 
ber.? 

Geo. I do. 

Mar. 1 have served thee since thou wasl 
a child ; served thee faithfully — was never 
from thy side. 

Geo. Thou hast. 

Mar. And now 1 die in thy service. 

Geo. Thou may'st recover. 

Alar, I cannot. By my long service—by 
my scars — by this mortal gash, and by the 
deatli that I am to die — oh, do not hate me 
for what I am now to unfold ! 

Geo. Be assured I can never hate thee. 

Alar. Ah, thou little knowest. — Swear to 
me thou wilt speak a word of comfort to my 
parting soul. 

Geo. (takes his hand.) I swear I will. 
(Alarm and shouting. ) But be brief — thou 
knowest my haste. 

Mar. Hear me, then. I was the squire, 
the beloved and favorite attendant, of Arnolf 
of Ebersdorf. Arnolf was savage as the 
mountain bear. He loved the Lady Isabel, 
but she requited not his passion. She loved 
thy father ; but her sire, old Arnheim, was 
j the friend of Arnolf, and she was forced tc 
marry him. By midnight, in the chapel of 
Ebersdorf, the ill-omened rites were per- 
formed ; her resistance, her screams were in 
i vain. These arms detained her at the altar 





/£ 



(T-i 




;68 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



till the nuptial benediction was pronounced. 
Canst thou forgive me ? \ 

Geo. I do forgive thee. Thy obedience I 
to thy savage master has been obliterated ' 
by a long train of services to his widow. 

Mar. Services 1 ay, bloody services! for 
they commenced — do not quit my hand — 
they commenced with the murder of my 
master. (George qtiits his ha?ui, and stands 
aghast in speechless Iiorror.') Trample on 
me 1 pursue me with your dagger ! 1 aided 
your mother to poison her first husband ! I 
thank Heaven, it is said. 

Geo. M_\- mother ? Sacred Heaven ! Mar- 
tin, thou ravest — the fever of thy wound has 
distracted thee. 

Mar. No ! I am not mad ! Would to 
God 1 were ! Try me ! Yonder is the 
Wolfshill — yonder the old castle of Grief en- 
haus — and yonder is the hemlock marsh [in 
a whisper) where I gathered the deadly 
plant that drugged Arnolf's cup of death. 
(George traverses the stage in the ntiitost 
agitation, and sometimes stands over Mar- 
tin with his hands clasped together. ) Oh, 
had you seen him when the potion took 
effect 1 Had you heard his ravmgs, and 
seen the contortions of his ghastly visage ! — 
He died furious and impenitent, as he lived; 
and went — where 1 am shortly to go. You 
do not speak ? 

Geo. {with exertion.) Miserable wretch ! 
how can I ? 

Mar. Can you not forgive me ? 

Geo. May God pardon thee — I cannot ! 

Mar. I saved thy life 

Geo. For that, take my curse ! [He 
snatches up his battle-axe, and rushes out 
to the side from "which the noise is heard. ) 

Mar. Hear me! yet more— more horror! 
(Attempts to 7-ise, and falls heavily. A 
loud alarm.) 

Enter Wickerd, hastily. 

Wic. In the name of God, Martin, lend 
ne thy brand ! 

Mar. Take it. 

Wic. Where is it ? 

Mar. (looks wildly at him.) In the 
chapel at Ebersdorf, or buried in the hem- 
lock marsh. 

Wic. The old grumbler is crazy with his 
wounds. Martin, if thou liast a spark of 
reason in thee, give me thy sword. The day 
goes sore against us. 

Mar. There it lies. Bury it in the heart 



of thy mastei George ; thou wilt do him a 
good office — the office of a faithful servant. 

Enter Conrad. 
Co7i. Away, Wickerd ! to horse, and pur- 
sue ! Baron George has turned the day ; he 
fights more like a fiend than a man : he has 
unhorsed Roderic, and slain six of his troop- 
ers — they are in headlong flight — the hem- 
lock marsh is red with their gore ! (Martin 
gives a deep g}-oan, and faints.) Away! 
away 1 ( They hurry off, us to the pursuit.) 

Enter Roderic of ^\2\'a.Vig&i\,withoiit his hel- 
met, his arms disorde7-ed and broken, 
holding the truncheon of a spear in his 
hand ; -with him. Baron Wolf stein. 
Rod. A curse on fortune, and a double 
curse upon George of Aspen ! Never, never 
will I forgive him my disgrace — overthrown 
like a rotten trunk before a whirlwind! 

Wolf. Be comforted. Count Roderic ; it 
is well we have escaped being prisoners. 
See how the troopers of Aspen pour along 
the plain, like the billows of the Rhine ! It 
is good we are shrouded by the thicket. 

Rod. W'hy took he not my life, when he 
robbed me of my honor and of my love? 
Why did his spear not pierce my heart, when 
mine shivered on his arms like a frail bul- 
rush ? {Throws down the broken spear.) 
Bear witness, heaven and earth, I outlive 
this disgrace only to avenge! 

Wolf. Be comforted ; the knights of Aspen 
have not gained a bloodless victory. And 
see, there lies one of George's followers — 
{seeing Martin.) 

Rod. His squire Martin ; if he be not 
dead, we will secure him : he is the deposi- 
tory of the secrets of his master. Arouse 
thee, trusty follower of the house of Aspen ! 
Mar. {reviving^ Leave me not ! leave 
me not. Baron George ! my eyes are dark- 
ened with agony! I have not yet told all. 

Wolf. The old man takes you fqr his mas- 
ter. 

Rod. What wouldst thou tell .? 
Mar. Oh, I would tell all the temptations 
by which 1 was urged to the murder of Ebers- 
dorf ! 

Rod. Murder ! — this is v.'orth marking. 
Proceed. 

Mar. I loved a maiden, daughter of Ar- 
nolf's steward; my master seduced her — 
she became an outcast, and died in misery 
— I vowed vengeance— and I did avenge 
her. 







THE HOUSE OF ASPEN. 



569 



Sed. Hadst thoii accomplices ? 

Mar. None, but thy mother. 

Rod. The Lady Isabella ! 

Mar. Ay ; she hated her husband : he 
knew her love to Kudiger, and when she 
heard that thy father was returned from 
Palestine, her life was endaneered by the 
transports of his jealousy — thus prepared 
for evil, the fiend tempted us, and we fell. 

Rod. {breaks into a transport.) Fortune I 
thou hast repaid me all 1 Love and venge- 
ance are my own ! — Wolf stein, recall our 
followers! quick, sound thy bugle — (Wolf- 
stein sounds. ) 

Mar. (stares wildly round.) That was 
no note of Aspen — Count Roderic of Mal- 
tingen — Heaven ! what have 1 said ! 

Rod. What thou canst not recall. 

Mar. Then is my fate decreed ! 'Tis as 
it should be ! in this very place was the 
poison gather'd — 'tis retribution ! 

Enter three or four soldiers of Roderic. 

Rod. Secure this wounded trooper ; bind 
his wounds and guard him well . carry him 
to the ruins of Griefenhaus, and conceal him 
till the troopers of Aspen have retired from 
the pursuit ; — look to him, as you love your 
lives. 

Mar. (led off by soldiers. ) Ministers of 
vengeance ! my hour is come 1 [£';i;^««z'. 

Rod. Hope, joy, and triumph, once again 
are ye mine 1 Welcome to my heart, long- 
absent visitants 1 One lucky chance has 
thrown dominion into the scale of the house 
of Maltingen, and Aspen kicks the beam. 

Wolf. I foresee, indeed, dishonor to the 
family of Aspen, should this wounded squire 
make good his tale. 

Rod. And how thinkest thou this disgrace 
will fall on them ? 

Wolf. Surely, by the public punishment 
of Lady Isabella. 

Rod. And is that all } 

Wolf. What more ? 

Rod. Shortsighted that thou art, is not 
George of Aspen, as well as thou, a member 
of the holy and invisible circle, over which I 
preside. 

Wolf. Speak lower, for God'j sake ! these 
are things not to be mentioned before the 
sun. 

Rod. True : but stands he not bound by 
the most solemn oath religion can devise, to 
discover to the tribunal whatever concealed 
iniquity shall come to his knowledge, be the 
perpetrator whom he may — ay, were that 



perpetrator his own father — or mother ; and 
can you doubt that he has heard Martin's 
confession ? 

Wolf. True • but, blessed Virgin ! do you 
think he will accuse his own mother before 
the invisible judges ? 

Rod. It not, he becomes forsworn, and, by 
our law, must die. Either way my venge- 
ance is complete — perjured or parricide, I 
care not ; but, as the one or the other shall 
I crush the haughty George of Aspen. 

Wolf. Thy vengeance strikes deep. 

Rod. Deep as the wounds I have borne 
from this proud family. Rudiger slew my 
father in battle — George has twice baffled 
and dishonored my arms, and Henry has 
stolen the heart of my beloved : but no 
longer can Gertrude now remain under the 
care of the murderous darii of this brood of 
wolves ; far less can she wed the smooth- 
cheeked boy, when this scene of villany 
shall be disclosed. \_Bugle. 

Wolf. Hark ! they sound a retreat : let 
us go deeper into the wood. 

Rod. The victors approach ! I shall dash 
their triumph ! — Issue the private summons 
for convoking the members this very even- 
ing ; I will direct the other measures. 

Wolf. What place ? 

Rod. The old chapel in the ruins of Grief- 
enhaus, as usual. \Rxetint 



SCENE II. 

Enter George of Aspen, as from the pnrstat. 

Geo. {comes slowly forward.) How many 
wretches have sunk under my arm this day, 
to whom life was sweet, though the wretched 
bondsmen of Count Roderic ! And I — I who 
sought death beneath every lifted battle-axe, 
and offered my breast to every arrow — I am 
cursed with victory and safety. Here I left 

the wretch Martin ! — Martin ! — what. 

ho ! Martin ! Mother of God ! he is 

gone ! — Should he repeat the dreadful tale 

to any other Martin ! — He answers not. 

Perhaps he has crept into the thicket, and 
died there — were it so, the horrible secret \v, 
only mine. 

Enter Henry of Aspen, with Wickerd, 
Reynold, and followers. 

Hen. Joy to thee, brother 1 though, by St 
Francis, I would not gain another field at 





^ 



570 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



the price of seeing thee fight with such reck- 
less desperatino. Thy safety is little less 
than miraculous. 

Rey. By'r Lady, when Baron George 
struck, 1 think he must have forgot that his 
foes were God's creatures. Such furious 
doings I never saw, and I have been a 
trooper these forty-two years come St. 

Barnaby 

Geo. Peace ! Saw any of you Martin ? 
Wic. Noble sir, I left him here not long 
since. 

Geo. Alive or dead ? 

Wic. Alive, noble sir, but sorely wounded. 
I think he nnist be prisoner, for he could 
not have budged else from hence. 

Geo. Heedless slave 1 Why didst thou 
leave him .'' 

Hen. Dear brother, Wickerd acted for 
the best . he came to our assistance and the 
aid of his companions. 

Geo. 1 tell thee, Henry, Martin's safety 
was of more importance than the lives of 
any ten that stand here. 

Wic. (iiiuftcriiig.) Here's much to do 
about an old crazy trencher-shifter. 
Geo. What mutterest thou 1 
Wic. Only, sir knight, that Martin 
seemed out of his senses when I left him, 
and has perhaps wandered into the marsh, 
and perished there. 

Geo. How— out of his senses? Did he 
speak to thee ? — (apprehensively.) 
Wic. Yes, noble sir. 

Geo. Dear Henry, step for an instant to 
yon tree — thou wilt see from thence if the 
foe rally upon the Wolfshill. (Henry 
retires.) And do you stand back (to the 
soldiers). 

\He brings Wi^zrA forward . 
Geo. (with marked apprehension^ What 
did Martin say to thee, Wickerd ?— tell me, 
on thy allegiance. 

Wic. Mere ravines, sir knight — offered 
me his sword to kill you. 

Geo. Said he aught of killing any one 
else ? 

Wic. No • the pain of his wound seemed 
to have brought on a fever. 

Geo (clasps his hands together.) I breathe 
again — I spy comfort. Why could I not see 
as well as this fellow, that the wounded 
wretch may have been distracted ? Let me 
at least think so till proof shall show the 
truth (aside). Wickerd, think not on what 
I said — the heat of the battle had chafed my 



blood. Ttiou hast wished for the Nether 
farm at Ebersdorf — it shall be thine. 
Wic. 'I'hanks, my noble lord. 

Re-enter Henry. 

Hen. No — they do not rally — they have 
had enough of it — but Wickerd and Conrad 
shall remain, with twenty troopers and a 
score of crossbowmen, and scour the woods 
towards Grief enhaus, to prevent the fugitives 
from making head. We will, with the rest, 
to Ebersdorf. What say you, brother ? 

Geo. Well ordered. Wickerd, look thou 
search everywhere for Martin : bring him to 
me dead or alive; leave not a nook of the 
wood unsought. 

Wic. I warrant you, noble sir, I shall find 
him, eould he clew himself up like a dor- 
mouse. 

Hen. 1 think he must be prisoner. 

Geo. Heaven forfend ! Take a trumpet, 
Eustace (to an attendant), ride to the 
castle of Maltingen, and demand a parley. 
If Martin is prisoner, offer any ransom . 
offer ten — twenty — all our prisoners in ex- 
change. 

Etts. It shall be done, sir knight. 

Hen. Ere we go, sound trumpets — strike 
up the song of victory. 



Joy to the victors ! the sons of old Aspen ! 

Joy to the race of the battle and scar ! 
Glory's proud garland triumphantly grasp- 

Generous in peace, and victorious in war. 

Honor acquiring, 

Valor inspiring, 
Bursting resistless, through foemen they 
go: 

War-axes wielding. 

Broken ranks yielding, 
Till from the battle proud Roderic retir 

ingj 
Yields in wild rout the fair palm to his foe. 

Joy to each warrior, true follower of Aspen! 
Joy to the heroes that gain'd the bold day ! 
Health to our wounded, in agony gasping ; 
Peace to our brethren that fell in the fray \ 
Boldly this morning, 
Roderic's power scorning. 
Well for their chieftain their blades did 
they wield : 

Joy blest them dying. 
As Maltingen flying. 







THE HOUSE OF ASPEN. 



57^ 



Low laid his banners, our conquest adorn- 
ing, 
Their death-clouded eyeballs descried on the 

field! 
Now to our home, the proud mansion of 
Aspen, 
Bend we, gay victors, triumphant away : 
There each fond damsel, her gallant youth 
clasping. 
Shall wipe from his forehead the stains of 
the fray. 

Listening the prancing 
Of horses advancing ; 
E'en now on the turrets our maidens 
appear ; 

Love our hearts warming. 
Songs the night charming, 
Round goes the grape in the goblet gay 
dancing ; 
Love, wine, and song, our blithe evening 
shall cheer ! 
Hen. Now spread our banners, and to 
Ebersdorf in triumph. We carry relief to 
the anxious, joy to the heart of the aged, 
brother George. {Going off.) 
Geo. Or treble misery and death. 

\^Aj>art, and following slowly. 
The music soutids, and the followers of 
Aspen begin to file across the stage. The 
curtain falls. 



ACT in.— SCENE I. 

Castle of Ebersdorf. 
Rudiger, Isabella, and Gertrude. 

Riid. I prithee, dear wife, be merry. It 
must be over by this time, and happily, 
otherwise the bad news had reached us. 

Isa. Should we not, then, have heard the 
tidings of the good ? 

Ritd. Oh ! these fly slower by half. Be- 
sides, I warrant all of them engaged in the 
pursuit. Oh ! not a page would leave the 
skirts of the fugitives till they were fairly 
beaten into their holds ; but had the boys 
lost the day, the stragglers had made for the 
castle. Go to the window, Gertrude : seest 
thou anything ? 

Gcr. I think I see a horseman. 

Isa. A single rider? then I fear me much. 

Ger. It is only Father Ludovic. 

Rud. A plague on tliee ! didst thou take 
a fat friar on a mule for a trooper of the 
house of Aspen ? 

Ger. But yonder is a cloud of diist. 



Rud. (eagerly^ Indeed ! 

Ger It is only the wine sledges going to 
my aunt's convent. 

Rud. The devil confound the wine sledges, 
and the mules, and the monks ! Come from 
the window, and torment me no longer, thou 
seer of strange sights. 

Ger. Dear uncle, what can I do to amuse 
you 1 Shall I tell you what I dreamed this 
morning .■' 

Rud. Nonsense : but say on ; anything is 
better th?-n silence. 

Ger. 1 thought I was in the chapel, and 
they were burying my aunt Isabella alive. 
And who do you think, aunt, were the grave- 
diggers who shovelled in the earth upon 
you ! Even Baron George and old Martin. 

Isa. {appears shocked^ Heaven 1 what an 
idea ! 

Ger. Do but think of my terror — and 
Minhold the minstrel played all the while to 
drown your screams. 

Rud. And old Father Ludovic danced a 
saraband, with the steeple of the new con- 
vent upon his thick skull by way of mitre. 
A truce to this nonsense. Give us a song, 
my love, and leave thy dreams and visions. 

Ger. What shall I sing to you .? 

Rud. Sing to me of war 

Ger. I cannot sing of battle ; but I will 
sing you the Lament of Eleanor of Toro, 
when her lover was slain in the wars. 

Isa. Oh, no laments, Gertrude. 

Rud. Then sing a song of mirth. 

Isa. Dear husband, is this a time for 
mirth ? 

Rud. Is it neither a time to sing of mirth 
nor of sorrow ? Isabella would rather hear 
Father Ludovic chant the " De profundis." 

Ger. Dear uncle, be not angry. At pres- 
ent, I can only sing the lay of poor Eleanor. 
It comes to my heart at this moment as if 
the sorrowful mourner had been my own 
sister. 

SONG.* 

Sweet shone the sun on the fair lake of Torou 
Weak were the whispers that waved the 
dark wood. 
As a fair maiden, bewilder'd in sorrow, 
Sigh'd to the breezes and wept to the 
flood.— 
"Saints, from the mansion of bliss lowly 
be.idin?. 



* Compare with "The Maid of 'Yoxq" ante, 
p. 376. 







^\ 




1 1 c 1 •> 


c •> 


- - — , 


/C' — 


. 


. — 


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(h. 


c-l a 6 1— 2 


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^ 




"4 


e 


? ilr 








572 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 






Virgin, that hear'st the poor suppliant's 


Hen. Hard at hand: by this he is cross 




cry, 


ing the drawbridge. Hast thou no greetings 1 




^ 


\^ Grant my petition, in anguish ascending, 


for me, Gertrude.'' [Goes to her.) J I 






1 My Frederick restore, or let Eleanor die." 


Ger. I joy not in battles. 

Rud. But she had tears for thy danger. 






Distant and faint were the sounds of the 


Hen. Thanks, my gentle Gertrude. See, I 






battle ; 


have brought back thy scarf from no inglo- 






With the breezes they rise, with the 


rious field. 






breezes they fail, 


Ger. \t\sh\oody\—{shocked.) 






rill the shout, and the groan, and the con- 


Rud. Dost start at that, my girl ? Were 






flict's dread rattle. 


it his own blood, as it is that of his foes. 






And the chase's wild clamor came loading 


thou shouldst glory in it. — Go, Reynold, 






the gale. 


make good cheer with thy fellows. 






Breathless she gazed through the woodland 
so dreary. 
Slowly approaching, a warrior was seen ; 


[^Exit Reynold and Soldiers. 






Enter George, pensively. 






Life's ebbing tide mark'd his footsteps so 


Geo. (goes straight to Hudiger.) Father, 






weary. 


thy blessing. 






Cleft was his helmet, and woe was his 


Rud. Thou hast it, boy. 






mien. 


Isa. {rushes to embrace him — he avoids 
her.) How? art thou wounded.? 






" Save thee, fair maid, for our armies a^e 


Geo. No. 






flying ; 


Rud. Thou lookest deadly pale. 






Save thee, fair maid, for thy guardian is 


Geo. It is nothing. 






low; 


Isa. Heaven's blessing on my gallant 






Cold on yon heath thy bold Frederick is 


George. 






lying, 


Geo. [aside.) Dares she bestow a blessing? 






Fast through the woodland approaches 


Oh, IVIartin's tale was frenzy ! 






the foe." 


Isa. Smile upon us for once, my son ; 
darken not thy brow on this day of gladness 






[ The voice of Gertrude sinks by de- 


— few are our moments of joy — should not 






grees, till she bursts into tears. 


my sons share in them ? 

Geo. [ aside. ) She has moments of joy — it 






Rud. How now, Gertrude? 


zvas frenzy then ! 






Ger. Alas! may not the fate of poor 


Isa. Gertrude, my love, assist me to dis- 






Eleanor at this moment be mine ? 


arm the knight. [She loosens and takes off 






Ritd. Never, my girl, never! [Military 


his casque.) 






■music is heard. ) Hark ! hark ! to the 


Ger. There is one, two, three hacks, and 






sounds that tell thee so. 


none has pierced the steel. 






\All rise and run to the ivitidow. 


Rud. Let me see. Let me se6. A trusty 






Rud. Joy ! ioy ! they come, and come 


casque! 






victorious. ( The chorus of the ivar-song is 


Ger. Else hadst thou gone. 






heard withoitt.) Welcome! welcome! once 


Isa. I will reward the armorer with its 






more have my old eyes seen the banners of 


weight in gold. 






the house of Maltingen trampled in the 


Geo. [aside.) She ;«?«/ be innocent. 






dust. — Isabella, broach our oldest casks; 


Ger. And Henry's shield is hacked too! 






wine is sweet after war. 


Let me show it to you, uncle. [She carries 






Enter Yienry , folloived by Reynold ajid 


Henry's to Rudiger.) 
Rud. Do, my love; and come hither, 






troopers. 


Henry, thou shalt tell me how the day went. 






Rud. Joy to thee, my boy, let me press 


[Henry and Gertrude converse apart 






thee to this old heart. 


■with Rudiger ; George comes for 




' 


P Isa. 'BAe.si thee, my s,ori—{e7nbr aces hi77i.) 


•ward: Isabella comes to him. *\ 


-* 




Oh, how many hours of bitterness are com- 


Isa. Surely, George, some pvil has be- 






pensated by this embrace ! Bless thee, my 


fallen thee. Grave thou art aver, but so 






Henry! where hast thou left thy brother.' 


dreadfully gloomy — 




t 


J 


r 


X- — 


1 • 




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^1 \ I. 1 J 


c 1 :> 









THE HOUSE OF ASPEN. 



^12, 



Geo. ^tvV, indeed. — {Aside.) Now for 
the trial. 

Isa. Has your loss been great ? 

Geo. No ! — Yes ! — {Apart.) I cannot 
do it. 

Isa. Perhaps some friend lost? 

Geo. It must be. — -Martin is dead. — 
{He regards her with apprehension, but 
steadily, as he pronounces these words.) 

Isa. {starts, then shows a ghastly ex- 
pression of joy). Dead ! 

Geo. {almost overcome by his feelings). 
Guilty 1 Guilty ! —{Apart.) 

Isa. {withoitt observing his emotion). 
Didst thou say dead 1 

Geo. Did I — no — I only said mortally 
wounded. 

Isa. Wounded ? only wounded ? Where 
is he .? Let me fly to him. — {Going.) 

Geo. {ster7ily). Hold, lady! — Speak not 
so loud ' — Thou canst not see him ! — He 
is a prisoner. 

Isa. A prisoner and wounded .'' Fly to 
his deliverance ! — Offer wealth, lands, cas- 
tles, — all our possessions for his ransom. 
Never shall I know peace till these walls, 
or till the grave secures him. 

Geo. {apart). Guilty! Guilty! 

Enter Peter. 

Pet. Hugo, squire to the Count of Mal- 
tingen, has arrived with a message. 

Rud. I will receive him in the hall. 

\^Exit, leaning on Gertrude and Henry. 

Isa. Go, George — see after Martin. 

Geo. { tirmly). No, I have a task to per- 
form ; and though the earth should open 
and devour me alive — I will accomplish it. 
But first — but first — Nature, take thy 
tribute. — {He falls on his mother's neck, 
and weeps bitterly. ) 

Isa. George ! my son ! for Heaven's sake, 
what dreadful frenzy ! 

Geo. {7valks two turns across the stage 
and composes himself). Listen, mother — 
I knew a knight in Hungary, gallant in 
battle, hospitable and generous in peace. 
The king gave him his friendship, and the 
administration of a province ; that province 
was infested by thieves and murderers. 
You mark me.'' — 

Isa. Most heedfully. 

Geo. The knight was sworn — bound by 
an oath the most dreadful that can be taken 
by man — to deal among offenders, even- 
handed, stern and impartial justice. Was 
it not a dreadful vow t 



Isa. {7vith an affectation of composure). 
Solemn, doubtless, as the oath of every 
magistrate. 

Geo. And inviolable ? 

Isa. Surely — inviolable. 

Geo. Well ! it happened, that when he 
rode out against the banditti, he made a 
prisoner. And who, think you, that pris- 
oner was ? 

Isa. I know i:\ot {with increasing terror). 

Geo. {tremblitig, but proceeding rapidly). 
His own twin-brother, who sucked the same 
breasts with him, and lay in the bosom of 
the same mother : his brother, whom he 
loved as his own soul — what should that 
knight have done unto his brother ? 

Isa. {almost speechless). Alas ! what 
did he do ? 

Geo. He did {turning his head from 
her, and with clasped hands) what I can 
never do : — he did his duty. 

Isa. My son ! my son ! — Mercy ! Mercy ! 
{Clings to hitn.) 

Geo. Is it then true ? 

Isa. What? 

Geo. What Martin said. (Isabella hides 
her face.) It is true ! 

Isa. {looks up zvith an air of dignity). 
Hear, Framer of the laws of nature ! the 
mother is judged by the child — {Turns 
totvards him.) Yes, it is true — true that, 
fearful of my own life, I secured it by the 
murder of my tyrant. Mistaken coward ! 
I little knew on what terrors I ran, to avoid 
one moment's agony. — Thou hast the secret ! 

Geo. Knowest thou to whom thou hast 
told it ? 

Isa. To my son. 

Geo. No ! No ! To an executioner ! 

Isa. Be it so — go, proclaim my crime, 
and forget not my punishment. Forget 
not that the murderess of her husband has 
dragged out years of hidden remorse, to be 
brought at last to the scaffold by her own 
cherished son — thou art silent. 

Geo. The language of Nature is no more. 
How shall I learn another ? 

isa. Look upon me, George. Should 
the executioner be abashed before the crim- 
inal — look upon me, my son. From my 
soul do I forgive thee. 

Geo. Forgive me what ? 

Isa. What thou dost meditate — be ven- 
geance heavy, but let it be secret — add not 
the death of a father to that of the sinner ! 
Oh ! Rudiger ! Rudiger ! innocent cause of 
all my guilt and all my woe, how wilt thou 




w 




H 



h. 



574 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



tear thy silver locks when thou shalt hear 
her guilt whom thou hast so often clasped 
to thy bosom — hear her infamy proclaimed 
by the son of thy fondest hopes — (weeps). 

Geo. [struggling for breath.) Nature 
will have utterance, mother, dearest mother, 
1 will save you or perish ! (throzi's himself 
into her arms). Thus fall my vows. 

Isa. Man thyself ! I ask not safety from 
thee. Never shall it be said, that Isabella 
of Aspen turned her son from the path of 
duty, though his footsteps must pass over 
her mangled corpse. Man thyself. 

Geo. No ! No ! The ties of Nature were 
knit by God himself. Cursed be the stoic 
pride that would rend them asunder, and 
call it virtue ! 

Isa. My son ! My son ! How shall I be- 
hold thee hereafter .•' 

[ Three knocks are heard upon the 
door of the apartment. '\ 

Geo. Hark ! One — two — three. Roderic, 
thou art speedy ! (Apart.) 

Isa. (opens the door.) A parchment 
stuck to the door with a poniard ! ( Opens it. ) 
Heaven and earth ! — a summons from the 
invisible judges ! — (Drof>s the parchment.) 

Geo. (reads ^vith emotion.) " Isabella of 
Aspen, accused of murder by poison, we 
conjure thee, by the cord and by the steel, to 
appear this night before the avengers of 
blood, who judge in secret and avenge in 
secret, like the Deity. .\s thou art innocent 
or guilty, so be thy deliverance." — Martin, 
Martin, thou hast played false ! 

Isa. Alas ! whither shall I fly ? 

Geo. Thou canst not fly ; instant death 
would follow the attempt ; a hundred thou- 
sand arms would be raised against thy life ; 
every morsel thou didst taste, every drop 
which thou didst drink, the very breeze of 
heaven that fanned thee, would come loaded 
with destruction. One chance of safety is 
open, — obey the summons. 

Isa. And perish ? Yet why should I still 
tear death ? Be it so. 

Geo. No — I have sworn to save you. I 
will not do the work by halves. Does any 
one save Martin know of the dreadful deed 1 

Isa. None. 

Geo. Then go — assert your innocence, and 
leave the rest to me. 

Isa. Wretch that I am ! How can I 
support the task you would impose 'i 

Geo. Think on my father. Live for him; 
he will need all the comfort thou canst be- 
stow. Let the thought that his destruction 



is involved in thine, carry thee through the 
dreadful trial. 

Isa. Be it so. — For Rudiger I have 
lived, for him I will continue to bear the 
burden of existence ; but the instant that my 
guilt comes to his knowledge shall be the 
last of my life. Ere I would bear from him 
one glance of hatred or of scorn, this dagger 
should drink my blood. (Puts the poniard 
into her bosom. ) 

Geo. Fear not. He can never know. No 
evidence shalt appear against you. 

Isa. How shall I obey the summons, and 
where find the terrible judgment seat ? 

Geo. Leave that to the judges. Resolve 
but to obey, and a conductor will be found. 
Go to the chapel ; there pray for your sins 
and for mine. (He leads her out and re- 
turns.) — Sins, indeed! I break a dread- 
ful vow, but 1 save the life of a parent ; and 
the penance I will do for my perjury shall 
appal even the judges of blood. 
Enter Reynold. 
Rey. Sir knight, the messenger of Count 
Roderick desires to speak with you. 
Geo. Admit him. 

Enter Hugo. 
Hug. Count Roderic of Maltingen greets 
you. He says he will this night hear the 
bat flutter and the owlet scream, and he bids 
me ask if thou also wilt listen to the music. 
Geo. I understand him. I will be there. 
Hug. And the count says to you, that he 
will not ransom your wounded squire, though 
you would downweigh his best horse with 
gold. But you may send him a confessor, 
for the count says he will need one. 
Geo. Is he so near death ? 
Hug. Not as it seems to me. He is weak 
through loss of blood ; but since his wound 
was dressed he can both stand and walk. 
Our count has a notable balsam, which has 
recruited him much. 

Geo. Enough — I will send a priest. — 
(Exit Hugo.) I fathom his plot. He would 
add another witness to the tale of Martin's 
guilt. But no priest shall approach him. 
Reynold, thinkest thou not we could send 
one of the troopers, disguised as a monk, to 
aid Martin in making his escape? 

Rey. Noble sir, the followers of your 
house are so well known to those of Maltin- 
gen, that I fear it is impossible. 

Geo. Knowest thou of no stranger who 
might be employed ? His reward shall ex- 
ceed even his hopes. 



^ 



w 




THE HOUSE OF ASPEN. 



575 



Rey. So please you — I think the minstrel 
•could well execute such a commission ■- he 
is shrewd and cunning, and can write and 
read like a priest. 

Geo Call him.— f£.i;/? Reynold. ) If this 
fails, I must employ open force Were 
Martin removed, no tongue can assert the 
bloody truth. 

Enter Minstrel 

Geo Come hither, Minhold Hast thou 
uourage to undertake a dangerous enterprise .' 

Ber. My life, sir Knight, has been one 
icene of danger and of dread. I have for- 
gotten how to fear. 

Geo. Thy speech is above thy seeming. 
Who art thou ? 

Ber. An unfortunate knight, obliged to 
shroud myself under this disguise. 

Geo. What is the cause of thy misfortunes ? 

Ber 1 slew, at a tournament, a prince, 
and was laid under the ban of the empire. 

Geo. I have interest with the emperor. 
Swear to perform what task I shall impose 
on thee, and I will procure the recall of the 
ban. 

Ber. I swear. 

Geo. Then take the disguise of a monk, 
and go with the follower of Count Rodenc, 
as if to confess my wounded squire 
Martin. Give him thy dress, and remain 
in prison in his stead. Thy captivity shall 
be short, and I pledge my knightly word I 
will labor to execute my promise, when thou 
shalt have leisure to unfold thy history. 

Ber. I will do as you direct. Is the ife 
of your squire in danger ? 

Geo. It is, unless thou canst accomplish 
his release. 

Ber. I will essay it. \Exit, 

Geo. Such are the mean expedients to 
which George of Aspen must now resort. 
No longer can I debate with Roderic in the 
field The depraved — the perjured knight 
luist contend vith him only in the arts of 
dissimulation and treachery Oh, mother ! 
uiother ! the most bitter consequence of thy 
crime has been the birth of thy first-born 1 
But I must warn my brother of the impend- 
ing storm. Poor Heniy, how little can thy 
gay temper anticipate evil 1 Whri, ho there ! 
{Enter an Attendant.) Where is Baron 
Henry ' 

Att. Noble sir he rode forth, after a 
slight refreshment, to visit the party in the 
field. 

Geo. Saddle my steed ; I will follow him. 



Att. So please you, your noble father has 
twice demanded your presence at the ban- 
quet. 

Geo. It matters not — say that I have rid- 
den forth to the WolfshilL Where is thy 
lady ' 

Aft. In the chapel, sir knight. 

Geo 'Tis well — saddle my bay-horse — 
^apart) for the last time \Exit. 




ACT IV.— SCENE I. 

The wood of Griefenhaiis, ivith the ruins of 
the Castle. A nearer view of the Castle 
than in Act Second, but still at some dis- 
tance. 

Enter Roderic, Wolfstein, and Soldiers, as 
from a reconnoitring party. 

Wolf They mean to improve dieir suc- 
cess, and will push their advantage far. We 
must retreat betimes, Count Roderic. 

Rod. We are safe here for the present. 
They make no immediate motion of ad- 
vance. I fancy neither George nor Henry 
are with their party in the wood. 

Enter Hugo. 

Hug. Noble sir, how shall I tell what has 
happened ? 

Rod. What >. 

Hug Martin has escaped. 

Rod. Villain, thy life shall pay it ! 
(Strikes at Hugo — is held by Wolfstein.) 

Wolf Hold, hold, Count Roderic! Hugo 
may be blameless. 

Rod. Reckless slave ! how came he to 
escape .' 

Hug. Under the disguise of a monk's 
i habit, whom by your orders we brought to 
confess him. 

Rod. Has he been long gone .' 

Hug. An hour and more since he passed 
our sentinels, disguised as the chaplain o£ 
Aspen ; but he walked so slowly and feebly, 
1 think he cannot yet have reached the posts 
of the enemy. 

Rod. Where is the treacherous priest ? 

Hug. He awaits his doom not far from 
hence. [Exit Hugo. 

Rod. Drag him hither. The miscreant 
that snatched the morsel of vengeance from 
the lion of Maltingen, shall expire under 
torture. 







576 



SCOTT^S POETICAL WORKS. 



Re-enter Hugo, with Bertram and Attend- 
ants. 

Rod. Villain ! what tempted thee, under 
the garb of a minister of religion, to steal a 
criminal from the hand of justice ! 

Ber. I am no villain, Count Roderic ; 
and I only aided the escape of one wounded 
wretch whom thou didst mean to kill basely. 
Rod. Liar and slave ! thou hast assisted 
a murderer, upon whom justice had sacred 
claims. 

Ber. I warn thee again. Count, that I am 
neither liar nor slave. Shortly I hope to 
tell thee I am once more thy equal. 

Rod. Thou ! Thou ! 

Ber. Yes ! the name of Bertram of Ebers- 
dorf was once not unknown to thee. 

Rod, [astonished.) Thou Bertram ! the 
brother of Arnolf of Ebersdorf, first husband 
of the Baroness Isabella of Aspen ? 
Ber. The same. 

Rod. Who, in a quarrel at a tournament, 
many years since, slew a blood-relation of 
the emperor, and was laid under the ban .? 
Ber. The same. 

Rod. And who has now, in the disguise 
of a priest, aided the escape of Martin, 
squire to George of Aspen ? 
Ber. The same — the same. 
Rod. Then, by the holy cross of Cologne, 
thou hast set at liberty the murderer of thy 
brother Arnolf ! 

Ber. How! Wiiat 1 I understand thee 
not! 

Rod. Miserable plotter I— Martin, by his 
own confession, as Wolfstein heard, avowed 
having aided Isabella in the murder of her 
husband. I had laid such a plan of venge- 
ance as should have made all Germany 
shudder. And thou hast counteracted it— 
thou, the brother of the murdered Arnolf ! 
Ber. Can this be so, Wolfstein .? 
Wolf. I heard Martin confess the mur- 
der. 

Ber. Then am I indeed unfortunate ! 
• Rod. What, in the name of evil, brought 
thee here ? 

Ber. I am the last of my race. When I 
was outlawed, as thou knowest, the lands of 
Ebersdorf, my rightful inheritance, were de- 
clared forfeited, and the Emperor bestowed 
them upon Rudiger when he married Isa- 
bella. I attempted to defend my domain, 
but Rudiger— Hell thank him for it— en- 
forced the ban against me at the head of 
his vassals, and I was constrained to fly. 



^ 



^ 



Since then I have warred against the Sara- 
cens in Spain and Palestine. 

Rod. But why didst thou return to a land 
where death attends thy being discovered .? 

Ber. Impatience urged me to see once 
more the land of my nativity, and the towers 
of Ebersdorf. I came there yesterday, under 
the name of the minstrel Minhold. 

Rod. And what prevailed on thee to un- 
dertake to deliver Martin ? 

Ber. George, though I told not my name, 
engaged to procure the recall of the ban ; be- 
sides, he told me Martin's life was in dan- 
ger, and I accounted the old villain to be the 
last remaining follower of our house. But, 
ns God shall judge me, the tale of horror 
thou hast mentioned I could not have even 
suspected. Report ran, that my brother 
died of the plague. 

Wolf. Raised for the purpose, doubtless, 
of preventing attendance upon his sick-bed, 
and an inspection of his body. 

Ber. My vengeance shall be dreadful as 
its cause ! The usurpers of my inheritance, 
the robbers of my honor, the murderers of 
my brother, shall be cut off, root and branch ! 

Rod. Thou art, then, welcome here ; espe- 
cially if thou art still a true brother to our 
invisible order. 

Ber. I am. 

Rod. There is a meeting this night on the 
business of thy brother's death. Some are 
now come. I must despatch them in pur- 
suit of Martin. 

Enter Hugo. 

Huf^. The foes advance, sir knight. 

Rod. Back I back to the ruins ! Come 
with us, Bertram ; on the road thou shalt 
hear the dreadful history. [^Exeunt. 

From the opposite side enter George, Henry, 
Wickerd, Conrad, and Soldiers. 

Geo. No news of Martin yet ? 

Wic. None, sir knight. 

Geo. Nor the minstrel ? 

Wic. None. 

Geo. Then he has betrayed me, or is pris 
oner— misery either way. Begone and 
search the wood, Wickerd. 

\Excuiit Wickerd and followers. 

Hen. Still this dreadful gloom on thy 
brow, brother ? 

Geo. Ay I what else ? 

Hen. Once thou thoughtest me worthy of 
thy friendship. 

Geo. Henry, thou art young — 








THE HOUSE OF A>PEN. 



577 



Hen. Shall I therefore betray thy confi- 
dence ? 

Geo. No ! but thou art gentle and well- 
natured. Thy mind cannot even support 
the burden which mine must bear, far less 
wilt thou approve the means I shall use to 
throw it off. 

Hen. Try me. 

Geo. I may not. 

Hen. Then thou dost no er love me. 

Geo. I love tliee, and because I love thee, 
I will not involve thee in my distress. 

Hen. I will bear it with thee. 

Geo. Shouldst thou share it, it would be 
doubled to me ! 

Hen. Fear not, I will find a remedy. 

Geo. It would cost thee peace of mind, 
here, and hereafter. 

Hen. I take the risk. 

Geo. It may not be. Henry. Thou 
wouldst become the confidant of crimes past 
— the accomplice of others to come. 

Hen. Shall I guess 1 

Geo. I charge thee, no ! 

Hen. I must. Thou art one of the se- 
cret judges. 

Geo. Unhappy boy ! what hast thou said ? 

Hen. Is it not so ? 

Geo. Dost thou know what the discovery 
has cost thee ? 

Hen. T care not. 

Geo. He who discovers any part of our 
mystery must himself become one of our 
number. 

Hen. How so ? 

Geo. If he does not consent, his secrecy 
will be speedily ensured by his death. To 
that we are sworn — take thy choice ! 

Hen. Well, are you not banded in secret 
to punish those offenders whom the sword 
of justice cannot reach, or who are shielded 
from its stroke by the buckler of power ? 

Geo. Such is indeed the purpose of our 
fraternity ; but the end is pursued through 
paths dark, intricate, and slippery with 
blood. Who is he that shall tread them 
witli safety? Accursed be the hour in 
which I entered the labyrinth, and doubly 
accursed that, in which thou too must lose 
the cheerful sunshine of a soul without a 
mystery ! 

Hen. Yet for thy sake will I be a mem- 
ber. 

Geo_ Henry, thou didst rise this mornini, 
a free man. No one could say to thee, 
" Why dost thou so?" Thou layest thee 
down to-night the veriest slave tliat ever 



tugged at an oar — the slave of men whose 
actions will appear to thee savage and in- 
compreliensible, and whom thou must aid 
against the world, upon peril of thy throat. 

Hen. Be it so. 1 will share your lot. 

Geo. Alas, Henry 1 Heaven forbid ! But 
since thou hast by a hasty word fettered 
thyself, I will avail myself of thy bondage. 
Mount thy fleetest steed, and hie thee thjs 
very night to the Duke of Bavaria. He is 
chief and paramount of our chapter. Show 
him this signet and this letter ; tell him that 
matters will be this night discussed concern- 
ing tlie house of Aspen. Bid him speed 
him to the assembly, for he well knows the 
president is our deadly foe. He will admit 
thee a member of our lioly body. 

Hen. Who is the foe whom you dread? 

Geo. Young man, the first duty thou must 
learn is implicit and blind obedience. 

Hen. Well ! 1 shall soon return and see 
thee again. 

Geo. Return, indeed, thou wilt ; but for 
the rest — well ! that matters not. 

Hen. I go : thou wilt set a watch here ? 

Geo. I will. (Henry going.) Return, 
my dear Henry ; let me embrace thee, 
shouldst thou not see me again. 

Hen. Heaven ! what mean you ? 

Geo. Nothing. The life of mortals is pre- 
carious ; and, should we not meet again, 
take my blessing and this embrace — and this 
— {embraces him warmly). Andnov/ haste 
to the duke. (Exit Henry.) Poor youth, 
thou little knowest what thou hast under- 
taken. But if Martin has escaped, and if 
the duke arrives, they will not dare to pro- 
ceed without proof. 

Re-enter Wickerd and followers. 
Wic. We have made a follower of Mal- 
tingen prisoner, Baron George, who reports 
that Martin has escaped. 

Geo. Joy! joy! such joy as I can now 
feel ! Set him free for the good news — and, 
Wickerd, keep a good watch in this spot all 
night. .Send out scouts to find Martin, lest 
he should not be able to reach Ebersdorf. 
'Wic. I shall, noble sir. 

[ The kettle-drums and trumpeti 
flourish as for setting the watch : 
the scene closes. 












578 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



SCENE II. 



The Chapel at Ebersdorf, an ancient Gothic 
building. 

Isabella is discovered rising from be/ore the 
altar, on which burn two tapers. 

Tsa. I cannot pray. Terror and guilt 
have stifled devotion. The heart must be 
at ease — the hands must be pure when they 
are lifted to Heaven. Midnight is the hour 
of summons : it is now near. How can I 
pray, when I go resolved to deny a crime 
which every drop of my blood could not 
wash away ! And my son 1 Oh ! he will 
fall the victim of my crime ! Arnolf ! Arnolf ! 
thou art dreadfully avenged ! ( Tap at the 
door.) The footstep of my dreadful guide. 
{Tap again.) My courage is no more. 
(£'«/'£'?- Gertrude by the door.) Gertrude! 
is it only thou .'' {Embraces her.) 

Ger. Dear aunt, leave this awful place ; it 
chills my very blood. My uncle sent me to 
call you to the hall. 

Isa. Who is in the hall ? 

Ger. Only Reynold and the family, with 
whom my uncle is making merry. 

Isa. Sawest thou no strange faces ? 

Ger. No '. none but friends. 

Isa. Art thou sure of that .? Is George 
there ? 

Ger. No, nor Henry ; both have ridden 
out. I think they might have staid one day 
at least. But come, aunt, I hate this place ; 
it reminds me of my dream. See, yonder 
was the spot where methought they were 
burying you alive, below yon monument 
{pointing). 

Isa. {starting). The monument of my 
first husband. Leave me, leave me, Ger- 
trude. I follow in a moment. {Exit Ger- 
trude.) Ay, here he lies ! forgetful alike of 
his crimes and injuries ! Insensible, as if 
this chapel liad never rung with my shrieks, 
or the castle resounded to his parting groans ! 
When shall I sleep so soundly. {As she 
gazes on the monument, a figure mtiffled 
in black appears from behind it.) Merciful 
God ! is it a vision, such as has haunted my 
couch ? {It approaches : she goes on -vith 
mingled terror and resolution!) Ghastly 
phantom, art thou the restless spirit of one 
who died in agony, or art thou the mys- 
terious being that must guide me to the 
presence of the avengers of blood ? {Figure 
bends its head and beckons. ) — To-morrow ! 
To-morrow ! I cannot follow thee now ! 



{Figure shows a dagger from beneath its 

cloak. ) Com'pulsion ! I understand thee : 
1 will follow. (She follows the figure a little 
way ; he turns and u raps a black veil 
round her head, and takes her hand : then 
both exeunt behind the Jvonument.) 



SCENE III. 

The Wood of Grief enhaus . — A watchfire, 
roufid which sit Wickerd. Conrad, and 
others, in their watch-cloaks. 

Wic. The night is bitter cold. 

Con. Ay, but thou hast lined thy doublet 
well with old Rhenish. 

'Vic. True ; and I'll give you warrant for 
it. {Sings.) 

(rhein-weim lied.) 
Wliat makes the troopers' frozen courage 
muster ? 
The grapes of juice divine. 
Upon the Rliine, upon the Rhine they clus- 
ter : 
Oh, blessed be the Rhine ! 

Let fringe and furs, and many a rabbit skin, 
sirs. 
Bedeck your Saracen ; 
He'll freeze without what warms our hearts 
within, sirs, 
When the night-frost crusts the fen. 

But on the Rhine, but on the Rhine they 
cluster, 
The grapes of juice divine, 
That make our troopers' frozen courage 
muster : 
Oh, blessed be the Rhine ! 

Con. Well sung, Wickerd; thou wert 
ever a jovial soul. 

Enter a trooper or two more. 

Wic. Hast thou made the rounds, Frank ' 

Frank. Yes, up to the hemlock marsh. 
It is a stormy night ; the moon shone on tlie 
Wolfshill, and on the dead bodies with which 
to-day's work has covered it. We heard the 
spirit of the house of Maltingen wailing 
over the slaughter of its adherents : I durst 
go no farther. 

Wic. Hen-hearted rascal ! The spirit of 
some old raven, who was picking their bones. 

Can. Nay, Wickerd ; the churchmen say 
there are such things. 

Frank. Ay ; and Father Ludovic told us 






THE HOUSE OF ASPEN 



last sermon, how the devil twisted the neck 
of ten farmers at Kletterbach, who refused 
to pay Peter's pence. 

Wic. Yes, some church devil, no doubt. 
Frank. Nay, old Reynold says, that in 
passing, by midnight, near the old chapel at 
our castle, he saw it all lighted up, and heard 
a chorus of voices sing the tuneral service. 

Another Soldier. Fatlier Ludovic heard 
the same. , 

Wic. Hear me, ye hare-livered boys ! 
Can you look death in the face in battle, and 
dread such nursery bugbears ! Old Reynold 
saw his vision in the strength of the grape. 
As for the chaplain, far be it from me to 
name the spirit which visits him ; but I 
know what I know, when 1 found him con 
fessing Bertrand's pretty Agnes in the chest- 
nut grove. 

Con. But, VVickerd, though I have often 
heard of strange tales which I could not 
credit, yet there is one in our family so well 
attested, that 1 almost believe it. Shall 1 
tell it you ? 

All Soldiers. Do ! do tell it, gentle Conrad. 

Wic. And I will take t'other sup of 
Rhenish to fence against the horrors of the 
tale. 

Con. It is about my own uncle and god- 
father, Albert of Horsheim. 

Wic. I have seen him — he was a gallant 
warrior. 

Con. Well ! He was long absent in the 
Bohemian wars. In an expedition he was 
benighted, and came to a lone house on the 
edge of a forest : he and his followers 
knocked repeatedly for entrance in vain. 
They forced the door, but found no inhabit- 
ants. 

Prank. And they made good their quar- 
ters ? 

Con. They did : and Albert retired to 
rest in an upper chamber. Opposite to the 
bed on which he threw himself was a large 
mirror. At midnight he was awaked by 
deep groans • he cast his eyes upon the 
mirror, and saw 

Frank. Sacred Heaven 1 Heard you 
nothing .? 

Wic. Ay, the wind among the withered 
leaves. Go on, Conrad. Your uncle was a 
wise man. 

Con. That's more than gray hairs can 
make other folks. 

Wic. Ha ! stripling, art thou so mala- 
pert ? Though thou art Lord Henry's page, 
1 shall teach thee who commands this party. 




All Soldiers. Peace, peace, good Wickerd; 
let Conrad proceed. 

Con. Where was I .'' 

Frank. About the mirror 

Con. True. My uncle beheld in the 
mirror the reflection of a human face, dis- 
torted and covered with blood. A voice 
pronounced articulately, " It is yet time.'' 
As the words were spoken, my uncle dis- 
cerned in the ghastly visage the features of 
his own father. 

Soldier. Hush ! By St. Francis I heard 

a groan. {They start up all but VVickerd.) 

Wic. The croaking of a frog, who has 

caught cold in this bitter niglit, and sings 

rather more hoarsely than usual. 

Frank. Wickerd, thou art surely no 
Christian. {They sit down, and close round 
the fire.) 

Con. Well— my uncle called up his attend- 
ants, and they searched every nook of the 
chamber, but found nothing. So they covered 
the mirror with a cloth, and Albert was left 
alone : but hardly had he closed bis eyes 
when the same voice proclaimed. " It is 
now too late . " the covering was drawn 
aside, and he saw the figure 

Frank. Merciful Virgin ! It comes. {All 
rise.) 

Wic. Where? what? 
Con. See yon figure coming from the 
thicket ! 

Enter Martin, in the monk''s dress, much 

disordered : his face is very pale and his 

steps slow. 

Wic. {levelling his pike.) Man or devil, 
which thou wilt, thou shalt feel cold iron, if 
thou budgest a foot nearer. (Martin stops^ 
Who art thou ? What dost thou seek ? 

Mar. To warm myself at your fire. It is 
deadly cold. 

Wic. See there, 3'e cravens, your appari- 
tion is a poor benighted monk: sit down, 
father. {They place Martin by the fire.) 
By heaven, itis Martin — our Martin ! Martin, 
how fares it with thee? We have sought- 
thee this whole night. 

Mar. So have many others {yacantly). 

Con. Yes, thy master. 

Mar. Did you see him too ? 

Co7i. Whom ? Baron George ? 

Mar. No ! my first master, Arnolf of 
Ebersdorf. 

Wtc. We raves. 

Mar. He passed me but now in the wood, 
mounted upon his old black steed ; its nos- 






^Sc 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKi^ 



Uils breathed smoke and flame ; neither 
tree nor rock stopped him. He said, "Martin, 
thou wilt return this night to my service !" 

Wic. Wrap thy cloak around him, Fran- 
cis : he is distracted with cold and pain. 
Dost thou not recollect me, old friend ? 

Alar. Yes, you are the butler at Ebers- 
dorf : you have the charge of the large 
gilded cup, embossed with the figures of 
the twelve apostles. It was the favorite goblet 
of my old master. 

Con. By our Lady, Martin, thou must be 
distracted indeed, to think our master would 
intrust Wickerd with the care of the cellar. 

Mar. I know a face so like the apostate 
ludas on that cup. I have seen the likeness 
when I gazed on a mirror. 

Wic. Try to go to sleep, dear Martin ; it 
will relieve thy brain. {Footsteps are heard 
in the ■wood.) To your arms. (They take 
their arms.) 

Enter two Members of the Invisible Tri- 
bunal, 7niiffled in their cloaks. 

Con. Stand ! Who are you ? 
I Mem. Travellers benighted in the wood. 
Wic. Are ye friends to Aspen or Maltin- 
gen? 

1 Mem. We enter not into their quarrel : 
we are friends to the right. 

Wic. Then are ye friends to us, and wel- 
come to pass the night by our fire. 

2 Me7n. Thanks. {They approach the fire, 
and regard Martin very earnestly.) 

Con. Hear ye any news abroad ? 
2 Mem. None ; but that oppression and 
villany are rife and rank as ever. 
Wic. The old complaint. 

1 Mem. No ! never did former a.ge equal 
this in wickedness ; and yet, as if the daily 
commission of enormities were not enough 
to bkt the sun, every hour discovers crimes 
which have lain concealed for years. 

Co7t. Pity the Holy Tribunal should 
slumber in its office. 

2 Mem. Young man, it slumbers not. 
When criminals are ripe for its vengeance, 
it falls like the bolt of Heaven. 

Mar. {attetnpting to rise.) Let me be 
gone. 

Con. {detaining him.) Whither now, 
Martin ? 

Alar. To mass. 

I Alem. Even now, we heard a tale of a 
villain, who, ungrateful as the frozen adder, 
stung the bosom that had warmed him into 
life. 



Mar. Conrad, bear me off; I would be 
away from these men. 

Con. Be at ease, and strive to sleep. 
Alar. 'I'oo well 1 know — I shall never 
sleep again. 

2 Alem. The wretch of whom we speak 
became, from revenge and lust of gain, the 
murderer of the master whose bread he did 
eat. 

Wic. Out upon the monster ! 
I Alem. For nearly thirty years was he 
permitted to cumber the ground. The mis- 
creant thought his crime was concealed; but 
the earth which groaned under his footsteps 
— the winds which passed over his unhal- 
lowed head — the stream which he polluted 
by his lips — the fire at which he warmed his 
blood-stained hands — every element bore 
witness to his guilt. 

Alar. Conrad, good youth — lead me from 
hence, and I will show thee where, thirty 
years since, 1 deposited a mighty bribe. 

\Rises. 
Con. Be patient, good Martin. 
Wic. And where was the miscreant 
seized? 

\_The two Members suddenly lay 
hands on Martin, and draw their 
daggers; the Soldiers spring to 
their arms. 
I Mem. On this very spot. 
Wic. Traitors, unloose your hold ! 
I Alem. In the name of the Invisible 
Judges, I charge ye, impede us not in our 
duty. 

[All sink their weapons, and stand 
motionless. 
Mar. Help ! help ! 
I Mem. Help him with your prayers. 

[He is dragged off. The scene 
shuts. 



ACT v.— SCENE I. 

The subterranean chapel of the Castle oj 
Griefeiihaus. It seems deserted, and in 
decay. There are fottr entrances, each 
defended by ati iron portal. At each door 
stands a warder clothed in black, and 
masked, armed with a naked sword. 
During the whole scene they remain 
motionless on their posts. In the centre 
of the chapel is the ruinous altar, half 
sunk in the ground, on which lie a large 
book, a dagger, and a coil of ropes, be- 
side two lighted tapers. Antique stone 





M 




THE HOUSE OF ASPEN. 



benches of different heights around the 
chapel. ht the back scene is seen a 
dilapidated entrance into the sacristy, 
■which is quite dark. 
Various Members of the Invisible Tribunal 
enter by the four different doors of the 
chapel. Each whispers something as he 
passes the Warder, which is answered 
by an inclinatio7i of the head. The cos- 
tume of the members is a long black robe, 
capable of muffling the face some wear 
it in this manner ; others have their faces 
uncovered, unless en the entrance of a 
stranger ; they place themselves m pro- 
fou7id silence upon the stone benches. 

Enter Count Roderic, dressed in a scarlet 
cloak of the same for 7n with those of the 
other Members. He takes his place on 
the most elevated bench. 

Rod. Warders, secure the doors ! ( The 
doors are barred with great care.) Herald, 
do thy duty ! 

[^Members all rise — Herald stands 
by the altar. 

Her. Members of the Invisible Tribunal, 
who judge in secret, and avenge in secret, 
like the Deity, are your hearts free from 
malice, and your hands from blood-guilti- 
ness f 

[All the Members incline their 
heads. 

Rod. God pardon our sins of ignorance, 
and preserve us from those of presumption. 
\Again the Members solemnly in- 
cline their heads. 

Her To the east, and to the west, and 
to the north, and to the south, I raise my 
voice ; wherever there is treason, wherever 
there is blood-guiltiness, wherever there is 
sacrilege, sorcery, robbery, or perjury, there 
let this curse alight, and pierce the marrow 
and the bone. Raise, then, your voices, and 
say with me, woe 1 woe, unto offenders ! 

All. Woe ! woe ! \Me7nbers sit dotun. 

tier. He who knoweth of an unpunished 
crime, let him stand forth as bound by his 
oath when his hand was laid upon the dag- 
ger and upon the cord, and call to the as- 
sembly for vengeance 1 

Mem. (rises, his face covered.) Ven- 
geance ! vengeance ! vengeance ! 

Rod. Upon whom dost thou invoke ven- 
geance ? 

Accuser. Upon a brother of this order, 
who is forsworn and perjured to its laws. 

Rod, Relate his crime. 



Accu. This perjured brother was sworn, 
upon the steel and upon the cord, to de- 
nounce malefactors to the judgment-seat, 
from the four quarters of heaven, though it 
were the spouse of his heart, or the son 
whom he loved as the apple of his eye ; yet 
did he conceal the guilt of one who was 
dear unto him ; he folded up the crime 
ffom the knowledge of the tribunal ; he re- 
moved the evidence of guilt, and withdrew 
the criminal from justice. What does his 
perjury deserve ? 

Rod. Accuser, come before the altar : lay 
thy hand upon the dagger and the cord, and 
swear to the truth of thy accusation. 

Accu. (his hand on the altar.) I swear ! 

Rod. Wilt thou take upon thyself the 
penalty of perjury, should it be found false? 

Accu. I will. 

Rod. Brethren, what is your sentence ? 
f The Members coiifer a moment in 
whispers — a silence. 

Eldest Mem. Our voice is, that the per- 
jured brother merits death. 

Rod, Accuser, thou hast heard the voice 
of the assembly ; name the criminal. 

Accu. George, Baron of Aspen. 

\A murmur in the assembly. 

A Mem. (suddenly rising.) 1 am ready, 
according to our holy laws, to swear, by the 
steel and the cord, that George of Aspen 
merits not this accusation, and that it is a 
foul calumny. 

Accu. Rash man I gagest thou an oath 
so lightly ? 

Mem. I gage it not lightly. I protter it 
in the cause of innocence and virtue. 

Accu. What if George of Aspen should 
not himself deny the charge ? 

Mem. Then would I never trust man 
again. 

Accu. Hear him, then, bear witness 
against himself (throws back his mantle). 

Rod. Baron George of Aspen ? 

Geo. The same — prepared to do penance 
for the crime of which he stands self-ac- 
cused. 

Rod, Still, canst thou disclose the name 
of the criminal whom thou hast rescued 
from justice ; on that condition alone, thy 
brethren may spare thy life. 

Geo. Thinkest thou I would betray for 
the safety of my life, a secret I have pre- 
served at the breach of n;y word ? — No ! I 
have weighed the value of my obligation — I 
will not discharge it — but most willingly 
will I pay th? penalty ! 









5S2 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Rod. Retire, George of Aspen, till the 
assemblj pronounce judgment. 

Geo. Welcome be your sentence — I am 
v/eary of your yoke of iron. A light beams 
on my soul. Woe to those who seek jus- 
tice in the dark haunts of mystery and of 
cruelty ! She dwells in the broad blaze of 
the sun, and Mercy is ever by her side. 
Woe to those who would advance the gen- 
eral weal by trampling upon the social affec- 
tions ! they aspire to be more than men — 
they shall become worse than tigers. I go : 
better for me your altars should be stained 
with my blood, than my soul blackened with 
your crimes. 

[Exit George, by the ritinoits door 
in the back scene, into the sa- 
ci-isfy. 
Rod. Brethren, sworn upon the steel and 
upon the cord, to judge and to avenge in 
secret, without favor and without pity, 
what is your judgment upon George of As- 
pen, self-accused of perjury, and resistance 
to the laws of our fraternity. 

[Long and earnest vmrmurs in the 
assembly. 
Rod. Speak your doom. 
Eldest Mem. George of Aspen has de- 
clared himself perjured; — the penalty of 
perjury is death ! 

Rod. Father of the secret judges — Eld- 
est among those who avenge in secret — 
take to thee the steel and the cord ; — let the 
guilty no longer cumber the land. 

Eldest Mem. 1 am fourscore and eight 
years old. My eyes are dim, and my hand 
is feeble ; soon shall I be called before the 
throne of my Creator ; — how shall I stand 
there, stained with the blood of such a 
man ? 

Rod. How wilt thou stand before that 
throns, loaded with the guilt of a broken 
oath ? The blood of the criminal be upon 
us and ours ! 

Eldest Mem. So be it, in the name of 
God' 

\He takes the dagger from the altar, 
goes slowly to-vards the back scene, 
and rehtctantly eitters the sac- 
risty. 
Eldest Jtidgc. (from behind the scene.) 
Dost thou forgive me ? 

Geo. (behind.) I do! (He is heard to 
fall heavily. 

[Re-enter the old Judge from the 
sacristy. He lays on the altar the 
bloody dagger. 



Rod, Hast thou done thy duty? 
Eldest Mem. I have. (He faints.) 
Rod. He swoons. Remove him. 

[He is assisted off the stage. Dur- 
ing this, four members enter the 
sacristy and bring out a bier 
covered with a pall, which they 
place on the steps of the altar. A 
deep sdence. 
Rod. Judges of evil, dooming in secret, 
and avenging in secret, like the Deity : Goo. 
keep your thoughts from evil, and your 
hands from guilt. 

Ber. I raise my voice in this assembly, 
and cry, vengeance ! vengeance ! ven- 
geance ! 

Rod. Enough has this night been done^ 
(he rises and brings Bertram forward.) 
Think what thou doest — George has fallen 
— it were murder to slay both mother and 
son. 

Ber. George of Aspen was thy victim — a 
sacrifice to thy hatred and envy. I claim 
mine, sacred to justice and to my murdered 
brother. Resume thy place ! — thou canst 
not stop the rock thou hast put in motion. 

Rod. (resumes his seat.) Upon whom 
callest thou for vengeance? 
Ber. Upon Isabella of Aspen. 
Rod. She has been summoned. 
Herald. Isabella of Aspen, accused of 
murder by poison, I charge thee to appear, 
and stand upon thy defence. 

[ Three knocks are heard at one of 
the doors — it is opened by the 
warder. 

Enter Isabella, the veil still wrapped 
arotiitd her head, led by her conductor. 
All the members muffle their faces. 

Rod. Uncover her eyes. 

[77/1? veil is removed. Isabella loa- 
zvildly 7-ottnd. 

Rod. Knowest thou, lady, where th( n 
art? 

/.f(7. I guess. 

Rod. Say thy guess. 

Isa. Before the Avengers of blood. 

Rod. Knowest thou why thou art called 
to their presence? 

Isa. No. 

Rod. Speak, accuser. 

Ber. I impeach thee, Isabella of Aspen, 
before this awful assembly, of having mur- 
dered, privily and by poison, Arnolf of 
Ebersdorf, thy first husband. 







THE HOUSE OF ASPEN. 



583 



Rod. Canst thou swear to the accusa- 
tion ? 

Ber. {his hand on the altar.) 1 lay my 
hand on the steel and the cord, and swear. 

Rod. Isabella of Aspen, thou hast heard 
thy accusation. What canst thou answer ? 

Isa. That the oath of an accuser is no 
proof of guilt ! 

Rod. Hast thou more to say ? 

Isa. I have. 

Rod. Speak on. 

ha. Judges invisible to the sun, and seen 
only by the stars of midnight ! 1 stand be- 
fore you, accused of an enormous, daring, 
and premeditated cringe. I was married to 
Arnolf when I was only eighteen years old. 
Arnolf was wary and jealous ; ever suspect- 
ing me without a cause, unless it was be- 
cause he had injured me. How then should 
I plan and perpetrate such a deed ? The 
iamb turns not against the wolf, though a 
prisoner in his den. 

Rod. Have you finished .'' 

Isa. A moment. Years after years have 
elapsed without a whisper of this foul suspi- 
cion. Arnolf left a brother ! though com- 
mon fame had been silent, natural affection 
would have been heard against me — why 
spoke he not my accusation .'' Or has my 
conduct justified this horrible charge .? No ! 
awful judges, I may answer, I have founded 
cloisters, 1 have endowed hospitals. The 
goods that Heaven bestowed on me I have 
not held back from the needy. I appeal to 
you, judges of evil, can these proofs of inno- 
cence be downweighed by the assertion of 
an unknown and disguised, perchance a 
malignant accuser. 

Ber. No longer will I wear that disguise. 
{tiiroTVS back his mantle.) Dost thou know 
ma now ? 

Isa. Yes ; I know thee for a wandering 
minstrel, relieved by the charity of my hus- 
bancx. 

Ber. No, traitress ! know me for Bertram 
of Ebersdorf, brother to him thou didst 
murder. Call her accomplice, Martin. Ha ! 
turnest thou pale.'' 

Isa. May I have some water? — {Apart.) 
Sacred Heaven ! his vindictive look is so 
like. — [ Water is brought. 

A Mem. Martin died in the hands of our 
brethren. 

RoA. Dost thou know the accuser, lady ? 

Isa. {reassiiming fortitiide.) Let not the 
sinking of nature under this dreadful trial 
be imputed to the consciousness of guilt. I 



do know the accuser — know him to be out- 
lawed for homicide, and under the ban of 
the empire; his testimony cannot be re- 
ceived. 

Eldest "Judge. She says truly. 

Ber. {to Roderic.) Then 1 call upon thee 
and William of Wolfstein to bear witness to 
what you know. 

Rod. Wolfstein is not in the assembly, 
and my place prevents me from being a 
witness. 

Ber. Then I will call another : meanwhile 
let the accused be removed. 

Rod. Retire, lady. [Isabella is led to the 
sacristy. 

Isa. {in going off.) The ground is slip- 
pery. — Heavens ! it is floated with blood ! 

\^Exit into the sacristy. 

Rod. {apart to Bertram.) Whom dost 
thou mean to call ? [Bertram whispers. 

Rod. This goes beyond me. {After a 
momenfs thought.) But be it so. Maltin- 
gen shall behold Aspen humbled in the 
dust. {Aloud.) Brethren, the accuser 
calls for a witness who remains without : 
admit him. 

[All muffle their faces. 

E)tter Rudiger, his eyes bound or covered, 
leaning upon two members; they place 
a stool for him, and unbind his eyes. 

Rod. Knowest thou where thou art, and 
before whom .'' 

Rud. I know not, and I care not. Two 
strangers summoned me from my castle to 
assist, they said, at a great act of justice. I 
ascended the litter they brought, and I am 
here. 

Rod. It regards the punishment of per- 
jury and the discovery of murder. Art thou 
willing to assist us ? 

Rud. Most willing, as is my duty. 

Rod. What if tliQ crime regard thy 
friend ? 

Rud. I will hold him no longer so. 

Rod. What if thine own blood.'' 

Rud. I would let it out with my poniard. 

Rod. Then canst thou not blame us for 
this deed of justice. Remove the pall. 
( The pall is lifted, beneath which is dis- 
covered the body of George, pale and 
bloody. Rudiger staggers towards it. 

Rud. My George ! my George ! Not 
slain manly in battle, but murdered by legal 
assassins. Much, much may I mourn thee 





^N 




584 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORK'S. 



my beloved boy ; but not now, not now : 
never will I shed a tear for thy death till I 
have cleared thy fame. Hear me, ye mid- 
night murderers, he was innocent {raising 
his voice) — upright as the truth itself. Let 
the man who dares gainsay me lift tiiat 
gage. If the Almighty does not strengthen 
these frail limbs, to make good a father's 
quarrel, I have a son left, who will vindicate 
tlie honor of Aspen, or lay his bloody body 
b:side his brother's. 

Rod. Rash and insensible ! Hear first 
the cause. Hear the dislionor of thy house. 

Isa. (from the sacristy.) Never shall he 
hear it till the author is no more ! ( Rudiger 
attempts to rush toivards the sacristy, but 
is prevented. Isabella enters ivounded, and 
throws herself on George's body). 

Isa. Murdered for me — for me! my 
dear, dear son ! 

Riid. (still held.) Cowardly villains, let 
me loose! Maltingen, this is thy doing! 
Thy face thou wouldst disguise, thy deeds 
thou canst not ! I defy thee to instant and 
mortal combat ! 

Isa. (looking up.) No! no! endanger 
not thy life! Myself! myself! I could 

not bear thou shouldst know Oh ! 

(Dies.) 

Riid. Oh ! let me go — let me but try to 
stop her blood, and 1 will forgive all. 

Rod. Drag him off and detain him. The 
voice of lamentation must not disturb the 
stsrn deliberation of justice. 

Rud. Bloodhound of Maltingen ! Well 
beseems thee thy base revenge ! The marks 
of my son's lance are still on thy craven 
crest ! Vengeance on the band of ye ! 

[Rudiger is dragged off to the sacristy. 

Rod. Brethren, we stand discovered! 
What is to be done to him who shall de- 
scry our mystery ? 

Eldest Judge. He must become a brother 
of our order, or die ! 

Rod. This man will never join us ! He 
cannot put his hand -into ours, which are 
stained with the blood of liis wife and son : 
he must therefore die! (Murmurs in the 
assembly). Brethren ! I wonder not at 
your reluctance ; but the man is powerful, 
has friends and allies to buckler his cause. 
It is over with us, and with our order, unless 
the laws are obeyed. (Fainter murmurs.) 
Besides, have we not sworn a deadly oath 
to execute these statutes? (A dead silence). 
Take to thee the steel and the cord (to the 
eldest judge). 



Eldest Judge. He has done no evil — he 
was the companion of my battle — I will 
not! 

Rod. (to another.) Do thou — and suc- 
ceed to the rank of him who has disobeyed. 
Remember yoiu' oath ! ( Member takes the 
dagger, and goes irresolutely forward: 
looks into the sacristy, and conies back. ) 

Mem. He has fainted — fainted in an- 
guish for his wife and his son : the bloody 
ground is strewn with his white hairs, torn 
by those hands that have fought for Chris- 
tendom. I will not be your butcher 
{ Throws down the dagger.) 

Ber. Irresolute and perjured! the robber' 
of my inheritance, the author of my exile, 
shall die ! 

Rod. Thanks, Bertram. Execute the 
doom — secure the safety of the holy tribu- 
nal! 

[Bertram seizes the dagger, and is 
about to rush into the sacristy, when 
three loud knocks are heard at the 
door. 
All. Hold! hold! 

\^The Duke of Bavaria, attended by 
many members of the Invisible 
Tribunal, enters, dressed in a scar- 
let mantle trimmed with ermine, 
and zvearing a ducal crown. — 
He carries a rod in his hand. — All 
rise. — A murmur among the me)n- 
bers, Tvho rvhisper to each other, 
" The Duke," " The Chief:' &'c. 
Rod. The Duke of Bavaria ! 1 am lost. 
Duke. ( sees the bodies. ) I am too late — 
the victims have fallen. 

Hen. (who enters 7mth the Duke.) 
Gracious Heaven ! O George ! 

Rud. (from the sacristy. ) Henry, it is 
thy voice — save me ! 

[Henry rushes into the sacristy. 
Duke. Roderic of Maltingen, descend 
from tiie seat which thou hast dishonored. 
(Roderic leaves his place, which the Duke 
occupies.)— T\\o\\ standest accused of having 
perverted the laws of our order; for that 
being a mortal enemy to the House of 
Aspen, thou hast abused thy sacred author- 
ity to pander to thy private revenge ; and to 
this VVoltstein has been witness. 

Rod Chief among our circles, I have but 
acted according to our laws. 

Duke. Thou hast indeed observed the 
letter of our statutes, and woe am I that 
they do warrant this night's bloody work ! 
I cannot do unto thee as I would, but what 






SEM 



THE HOUSE OF ASPEN. 



585 



I can I will. Thou hast not indeed ttans- 
giessed our law, but thou hast wrested and 
abused it • kneel down, therefore, and place 
thy hands betwixt mine. (Roderic kneels 
as direcled.) I degrade thee from thy 
sacred office {spreads his hands, as pushing 
Roderic _/>-(7;« him). If after two days thou 
darest to pollute Bavarian ground by thy 
footsteps, ioe it at the peril of the steel and 
the cord (Roderic rises). I dissolve this 
meeting (all rise). Judges and condemners 
of others, God teach you knowledge of your- 
selves I {All bend their heads — Duhe 
breaks his rod, and comes foi-vard.) 

Rod. Lord Duke, thou hast charged me 
with treachery — thou art my liege lord^but 
who else dares maintain the accusation, lies 
in his throat. 

He7t. {rushing from the sacristy.) Vil- 
lain 1 I accept thy challenge 1 

Rod. Vain boy ! my lance shall chastise 
thee ill the lists — there lies my gage. 

Duke. Henry, on thy allegiance, touch it 
not. f To Roderic.) Lists shalt thou never 



more enter ; lance shalt thou never more 
wield (draws his sword). With this sword 
wast thou dubbed a knight ; with this 
sword I dishonor thee — I thy prince — 
(strikes him slightly with the flat of the 
sword) — 1 take from thee the degree of 
knight, the dignity of chivalry. Thou art 
no longer a free German noble ; thou art 
honorless and rightless : the funeral obse- 
quies shall be performed for thee as for one 
dead to knightly honor and to fair fame ; 
thy spurs shall he. hacked from thy heels ; 
thy arms baffled and reversed by the com- 
mon executioner. Go, fraudful and dis- 
honored, hide thy shame in a foreign land ! 
( Roderic shows a dumb expression of 
rage.) Lay hands on Bertram of Ebers- 
dorf : as I live, he shall pay the forfeiture of 
his outlawry. Henry, aid us to remove 
thy father from this charnel-house. Never 
shall he know the dreadful secret. Be it 
mine to soothe the sorrows, and to restore 
the honor of the House of Aspen. 
{Curtain slowly falls.) 





j£ 



APPENDIX. 



THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 






Note i- 

Tht feast was ever in Branksotne iower.—P.S. 

Ik the reign of James I., Sir William Scott of 
Buccieuch, chief of the clan bearing that name, 
exchanged, with Sir Thomas Inglis of Manor, 
the estate of Murdiestone, in Lanarkshire, for 
one-half of the barony of Branksome, or Brank- 
holm, lying upon the Teviot, about three miles 
above Hawick. He was probably induced to 
this transaction from the vicinity of Branksome 
to the extensive domain which he possessed in 
Ettrick Forest, and in Teviotdale. In the 
former district he held by occupancy the estate 
of Buccieuch, and much of the forest land on 
the river Ettrick. In Teviotdale, he enjoyed 
the barony of Eckford, by a grant from Robert 
II. to his ancestor, Walter Scott of Kirkurd, for 
the apprehending of Gilbert Ridderford, con- 
firmed by Robert III., 3 May, 1434. Tra- 
dition imputes the exchange betwixt Scott and 
Inglis to a conversation, in which the latter— a 
man, it would appear, of a .nild and forbearing 
nature— complained much of the injuries to 
which he was exposed from the English Bor- 
derers, who frequently plundered his lands of 
Branksome. Sir William Scott instantly offered 
him the estate of Murdiestone, in exchange for 
that which was subject to such egregious in- 
convenience. When the bargain was completed, 
he dryly remarked, that the cattle in Cumber- 
land were as good as those of Teviotdale ; and 
proceeded to commence a system of reprisals 
upon the English, which was regularly pursued 
by his successors. In the next reign, James II. 
granted to Sir Walter Scott of Branksome, and 
fo Sir David, his son, the remaining half of the 
oarony of Branksome, to be held in blanche for 
the payment of a red rose. The cause assigned 
for the grant is, their brave and faithful exer- 
tions in favor of the King against the house of 
Douglas, with whom James had been recently 
tugging for the throne of Scotland. This charter 
is dated ths and February, 1443 ; and, in the 
same month, part ot the baronv of Langholm, 
and many lands in Lanarkshire, were conferred 
upon Sir Walter and his son by the same 
monarch ■ 



Note 2. 
N ine-and-iwenty Knights of fame 
Hung their shields in Branksome Hall. — P.8. 
The ancient barons of Buccieuch, both from 
feudal splendor and from their frontier situa- 
tion, retained in their household at Branksome, 
a number of gentlemen of their own name, who 
lield lands from their chief, for the military 
service of watching and warding his castle. 

Note 3. 
with Jedwood-axe at saddlebow. — P. 8. 

''Of a truth," says Froissait, " the Scottish 
cannot boast great skill with the bow, but 
rather bear axes, with which, in time of need, 
they give heavy strokes." The Jedwood-axe 
was a sort of partisan, used by horsemen, as 
appears from the arms of Jedburgh, which bear 
a cavalier mounted and armed with this 
weapon. It is also called a Jedwood or Jed- 
dart staff. 

Note 4. 
They watch, against Southern force andguile,. 

Lest Scroop, or Howard, or Percy' s powers. 

Threaten Branksome' s lordly towers, 
From IVarkwnrth, or Naworth, or merry 
Carlisle. — P. 8. 

Branksome Castle was continually exposed 
to the attacks of the English, both from its 
situation and the restless military disposition of 
its inhabitants, who were seldom on good terms 
with their neighbors. 

Note 5. 
Bards long shall tell, 
Ho-JoLerd Walter fell.— V. 9. 
Sir Walter Scott of Buccieuch succeeded to 
his grandfather, Sir David, in 1492. He was a 
brave and powerful baron, and Warden of the 
West Marches of Scotland. His death was 
{ the consequence of the feud betwixt the Scotts 
j and Kerrs. 
I Note 6. 

While Cessjord owns the nde of Carr, 
I While Ettrick boasts the line of Scott. 

(S87) 








£88 



APPENDIX. 



The slaughter' d chiefs, the tnorial jar. 

The havock of the feudal -war. 
Shall never, never be forgot ! — P . 9 . 

Among other expedients resorted to for 
stanching the feud betwixt the Scotts and the 
Kerrs, there was a bond executed m 1529, be- 
tween the heads of each clan, binding them- 
selves to perform reciprocally the four principal 
pilgrimages of Scotland, for the benefit of the 
souls of those of the opposite name who had 
fallen in the quarrel. But either this indenture 
never took effect, or else the feud was renewed 
shortly afterwards. 

Note 7. 

IVith Carr in arms had stood. — P. 9. 

The family of Ker, Kerr, or Carr,* was very 
powerful on the Border. Their influence ex- 
tended from the village of Preston-Grange, in 
Lothian, to the limits of England. Cessford 
Castle, now in ruins, the ancient baronial resi- 
dence of the family, is situated near the village 
of Morebattle, within two or three miles of the 
Cheviot Hills. Tradition affirms that it was 
founded by flalbert, or Habby Kerr, a gigantic 
warrior, concerning whom many stories are 
current in Roxburghshire. The Duke of Rox- 
burgh represents Ker of Cessford. 

Note S. 

Lord Cranstoun. — P. 9. 

The Cranstouiis are an ancient Border family, 
whose chief seat was in Crailing, in Teviotdale. 
They were at this time at feud with the clan of 
Scott ; for it appears that the Lady of Buc- 
cleuch, in 1557, beset the Laird of Cranstoun, 
seeking his life. Nevertheless, the same Cran- 
stoun, or perhaps his son, was married to a 
daughter of the same lady. 

Note 9. 
OfBethune^s line of P tear die. — P. 9. 
The Bethunes were of French origin, an-d 
derived their name from a small town in Artois. 
There were several distinguished famihes of the 
Bethunes in the neighboring province of Pi- 
cardy ; they numbered among their descendants 
the celebrated Due de Sully, and the name was 
accounted among the most noble m France, 
while aught noble remained in that country. t 
The family of Bethune, or Beatoun, in Fife, 
produced three learned and dignified prelates, 
namely. Cardinal Beaton, and two successive 
Archbishops of Glasgow, all of whom flourished 
about the date of the romance Of this family 



* The name is spelt differently by the various 
families who bear it. Carr is selected, not as the 
most correct, but as the most poetical reading. 

t This expression and sentiment were dic- 
tated by the situation of France, in the year 
1S03, when the poem was originally written. 
tSai. 



was descended Dame Janet Beaton, Lady Buc- 
clench, widow of Sir Walter Scott of Brank- 
soine. She was a woman of masculine spirit, 
as appeared from her riding at the head of her 
son's clan, after her husband's murder. She 
was believed by the superstition of the vulgar 
to possess supernatural knowledge. With this 
was mingled, by faction, the foul accusation of 
lier having influenced Queen Mary to the mur- 
der of her husband. One of the placards, pre- 
served in Buchanan's Detection, accuses of 
Darnley's murder "the Erie of Bothwell, Mr. 
James Balfour, the persoun of Fliske, Mr. 
David Chalmers, black Mr. John Spens, who 
was principal deviser of the murder ; and the 
Queen assenting thairto, throw the persuasion 
of the Erie Bothwell, and the witlihcraft oj 
Lady Btickleuch.^'' 

Note 10. 

He learned the art that none may name. 
In Padua, far beyond the sea. — P. g. 

Padua was long supposed by the Scottish 
peasants to be the principal school of necro- 
mancy. The Earl of Gowrie, slain at Perth, 
in i6oo, pretended, during his studies in Italy, 
to have acquired some knowledge of the cabala. 
— See the examination of Wemyss of Bogie, 
before the Privy Council, concerning Cowrie's 
Conspiracy. 

Note ii. 

Hisfortn no darkening shadow traced 
Upon the sunny "wall. — P. g. 

The shadow of a necromancer is independent 
of the sun Glycas informs us that Simon Ma- 
gus caused his shadow to go before him, making 
people believe it was an attendant spirit. — 
Hevwood's Hierarchie, p. 475. A common 
superstition was that when a class of students 
had made a certain progress in their mystic 
studies, they were obliged to run through a 
subterranean hall, were the devil literally 
caught the hindmost in the race, unless he 
crossed the hall so speedily that the arch-enemy 
could only grasp his shadow. Hence the old 
Scotch proverb, " De'il take the hindmost." 
Sorcerers were often fabled to have given their 
shadows to the fiend. 

Note 12. 
By wily turns, by desperate bounds. 
Had baffled Percy^ s best blood-hounds. — P. 10. 

The kings and heroes of Scotland, as well as 
the Border-nders, were sometimes obliged to 
study how to evade thepursuit of blood-hounds. 
Barbour informs us that Robert Bruce was re- 
peatedly tracked by sleuth-dogs. On one occa- 
sion, he escaped by wading a bow-shot down 
a brook, and ascending into a tree by a branch 
which overhung the water ; thus, leaving no 
trace on land of his footsteps, he baffled the 
scent. 

A sure way of stopping the dog was to spill 





THE LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



5^9 



blood upon the track, which deFtroyed the dis- ! 
criraiuating fineness of his scent. A captive I 
was sometimes sacrificed on such occasions, i 
Henry the Minstrel tells a romantic story ot 
Wallace, founded on this circumstance :— 1 he , 
hero's little band had been joined by an Ij'ish- ! 
man, named Fawdoun, or Fadzean, a dark, j 
savage, and suspicious character. After a 
sharp skirmish at Black-Erne Side, Wallace 
was forced to retreat with only sixteen fol- 
lowers, the Enghsh pursuing with a Border 
blood-hound. 

In the retreat, Fawdoun, tired, or affecting 
to be so, would go no farther, and Wallace, 
having in vain argued with him, m hasty anger, 
struck off his head, and continued the retreat. 
When the English came up, their hound stayed 
upon the dead body : — 

" The sleuth stopped at Fawdon, still she stood. 
Nor farther would, f ra time she fund the blood.' 

Note 13. 

But when Melrose he reached,' tivas silettce all; 

He meetly stabled his steed hi stall. 

And sought the cotivent' s lonely wall. — P. 12. 

The ancient and beautiful monastery of Mel- 
rose was founded by King David I. Its ruins 
afford the finest specimen of Gothic architecture 
and Gothic sculpture which Scotland can boast. 
The stone of which it is built, though it has 
resisted the weather for so many ages, retains 
perfect sharpness, so that even the most minute 
ornaments seem as entire as when newly 
wrought. 

Note 14. 

When the buttress and buttress, alternately, 
Seetn framed of ebon and ivory ; 

IVhen silver edges the imagery, 

A nd the scrells that te'ach thee to live and die. 



Then view St. David'' s ruined pile.— ^. 12. 

The buttresses ranged along the sides of the 
ruins of Melrose Abbey, are, according to the 
Gothic style, richly carved and fretted, con- 
taining niches for the statues of saints, and 
labelled with scrolls, bearing appropriate texts 
of Scripture. Most of these statues have been 
demolished. 

David I. of Scotland, purchased the reputa- 
tion of sanctity, by founding, and liberally en- 
dowing, not only the monastery of Melrose, 
but those of Kelso, Jedburgh, and many others; 
which led to the well-known observation of his 
successor, that he was a sore saint for the 
crswn. 

Note 15. 
A nd there the dying lamps did burn. 
Before thy low and lonely urn, 
O'gallant Chief of Otierburne l—'P. 13- 
The famous and desperate battle of Otter- 
burne was fought 15th August, 1388, betwixt 
Henry Percy, called Hotspur, and James, Earl 



of Douglas. Both these renowned rival cham- 
pions were at the head of a chosen body ot 
troops. The Earl of Douglas was slain in the 
action. He was buried ar Melrose, beneath 
the high altar. 

Note 16. 

dark Knight of Liddesdale. — P- 13. 

William Dougias, called the Knight of Lid- 
desdale, flourished during the reign of David 
11., and was so distinguished by his valor, 
that he was called the Flower of Chivalry. 
Nevertheless, he tarnished his renown by the 
cruel murder of Sir Alexandei Ramsay ol Dal- 
housie, originally his friend and brother in 
arms. The" King had conf en ed upon Ramsay 
the sheriffdom of Teviotdale, to which Douglas 
pretended some claim. In revenge of this pief- 
erence, the Knight of Liddesdale came down 
upon Ramsay, while he was administering jus- 
tice at Hawick, seized and carried hini off to 
his remote and inaccessible castle ot Hermitage, 
where he threw his unfortunate prisoner, horse 
and man, into a dungeon, leaving him to perish 
of hunger. 

NoTR 17. 

tht wondrous Michael Scott-— V. i4> 

Sir Michael Scott of Balwearie flourished 
during die 13th century, and was one of the 
ambassadors sent to bring the maid ot Nomay 
to Scotland upon the death of Alexander III 
By a poetical anachronism, he is here placed in 
a later era. He was a man of much learning, 
ihiefly acquired in foreign countries. He wrote 
a commentary upon Aristotle, printed at Venice 
in 1496: and several treatises upon natural 
philosophy, from which he appears to have 
been addicted to the abstruse studies of judicial 
astrology, alchymy, physiognomy, and chiro- 
mancy. Hence he passed among his contempo- 
raries for a skilful magician. Denijister informs 
us that he remembers to have heard in his 
youth that the magic books of Michael Scott 
were still in existence, but could not be opened 
without danger, on account of the malignant 
fiends who were thereby invoked. 

Tradition varies concerning the place of his 
burial; some contend for Home Coltrame, in 
Cumberland ; others for Melrose Abbey. But 
all agree that his books of magic were imeried 
in his grave, or preserved in the cnvent where 
he died. 



Note 18. 
The words that cleft Eildon hills in three.— 

P. 14. 
Michael Scott was, once upon a time, much 
embarrassed by a spirit, for whom he was under 
the necessity of finding constant employment. 
He commanded him to build a cauld, or dam- 
head, across the Tweed at Kelso : it was ac- 
complished m one night, and still does honot 
to the infernal architect. Michael next ordered 
that Eild'on hill, which was then a uniforn: 



^ 



IK 




f 





APPENDIX. 



cone, should be divided into three. Another 
night was sufficient to part its summit into the 
three picturesque peaks which it now bears. 
At length the enchanter conquered this inde- 
tatigable demon, by employing him in the 
hopeless and endless task of making ropes out 
of sea-sand. 

Note 19. 
The Baron's Dwarf kis courser held. — P. 16. 

The idea of Lord Cranstoun's Goblin Page is 
taken from a being called Gilpin Horner, who 
appeared, and made some stay, at a farm-house 
among the Border mountains. 

Note 20. 
All was delusion, naught was truth.— 'P. 19. 

Glamour, in the legends of Scottish super- 
stition, means the magic power of imposing on 
the eyesight of the spectators, so that the ap- 
pearance of an object shall be totally different 
from the reality. To such a charm the ballad 
of Johnny Fa' imputes the fascination of the 
lovely Countess, who eloped with that gipsy 
leader : — 

" Sae soon as they saw her weel-far'd face, 
They cast the glamour o'er her." 

Note 21. 

Until they catne to a -woodland brook ; 

The running stream dissolved the spell. — 

P. 19. 

It is a firm article of popular faith, that no 
enchantment can subsist in a living stream. 
Nay, if you can interpose a brook betwixt you 
and witches, spectres, or even fiends, you are 
in perfect safety. Burns's inimitable Tain o' 
Shanter turns entirely upon such a superstition. 

Note 22. 
He never counted him a man. 

Would strike below the knee. — P. 18. 

To wound an antagonist m the thigh or leg 
was reckoned contrary to the law of arms. In 
a tilt betwixt Gawaiii Michael, an English 
squire, and Joachim Cathore, a Frenchman, 
"they met at the speare poyntes rudely ; the 
French squyer justed right pleasaivtly ; the 
Englishman ran too lowe, for he strak the 
Frenchman depe into the thigh. Wherewith the 
Erie of Buckingham was right sore displeased, 
and so were all the other lords, and sayde how 
it was shamefully done." — Froissart, vol. i. 
chap. 366. 

Note 23. 
On many a cairn^s gray pyrainid. 
Where urns 0/ mighty chiefs Hi hid.—V. 22. 

The cairns, or piles of loose stones, which 
crown tlie summit of most of our Scottish hills, 
and are found in other remarkable si'uations, 
seem usually, though not universally, to have 
been sepulchral monuments. Six flat stones 



are commonly found m the centre, forming a 
cavity of greater or smaller dimensions, in which 
an um is often placed. The author is possessed 
of one, discovered beneath an immense cairn at 
Roiighlee, in Liddesdale. It is of the most 
barbarous construction ; the middle of the sub- 
stance alone having been subjected to the fire, 
over which, when hardened, the artist had laid 
an inner and outer coat of unbaked clay, etched 
with some very rude ornament, his skill appar- 
ently being inadequate to baking the vase when 
completely finished. The contents were bones 
and ashes, and a quantity of beads made of 
coal. This seems to have been a barbarous 
imitation of the Roman fashion of sepulture. 

Note 24. 

For pathless marsh, and mountaiji cell. 
The peasant left his lo^vly shtd.- — P. 22. 

The morasses were the usual refuge of th< 
Border herdsmen on the approach of an English 
SiXmy .-{Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, vol. 
i- P- 393') Caves, hewed in the most dangerous 
and inaccessible places, also afforded an occa- 
sional retreat. Such caverns may be seen in 
the precipitous banks of the Teviot at Sunlaws, 
upon the Ale at Ancram, upon the Jed at Hun- 
dalee, and in many other places upcui the 
Border. The banks of the Eske, at Gorton and 
Hawthornden, are hollowed into similar re- 
cesses. 

Note 25. 
Watt Titilinn.—V. 23. 

This person was, in my younger days, the 
theme of many a fireside tale. He was a re- 
tainer of the Buccleuch family, and held for his 
Border service a small tower on the frontiers of 
Liddesdale Watt was by profession a s7itor, 
but by inclination and practice an archer and 
warrior. Upon occasion, the captain of Bew- 
castle, military governor of that wild district of 
Cumberland, is said to have made an incursion 
into Scotland, in which he was defeated, and 
forced to fly. Watt Tinlinn pursued him closely 
through a dangerous morass ; the captain, how- 
ever, gained the firm ground ; and, seeing Tin 
linn dismounted and floundering in the bog, 
used these words of insult . — " Sutor Watt, ye 
cannot sew your boots ; the heels risp, and the 
seams rive.^' * — " If I cannot sew," retorted 
Tinlinn, discharging a shaft, which nailed the 
captain's thigh to the saddle, " if I cannot sew 
I can yerk." + 

Note 26. 
Belted Will Howard.— 'P. 23. 

Lord William Howard, third son of Thomas, 
Duke of Norfolk, succeeded to Naworth Castle, 
and a large domain annexed to it, in right of his 
wife Elizabeth, sister of George Lord Dacre, 



* Risp, creak.- — Rive, tear, 
t Verk, to twitch, as shoemakers do, in secur- 
ing the stitches of their work. 





M. 




THE LA Y OF THE LAST MIVSTREL. 



591 



who died without heirs male, in the nth of 
Queen Elizabeth. By a poetical anachronisni, 
he is introduced into the romance a few years 
earlier than he actually flourished. He was 
warden of the Western Marches : and, from the 
rigor with which he repressed the Border 
excesses, the name of Belted Will Howard is 
still famous in our traditions. 

Note 27. 

Lord Dacre. — P ■ 23. 

The well-known name of Dacre is derived 
trora the exploits of one of their ancestors at the 
siege of Acre, or Ptolemais, under Richard 
Coeur de Lion. 

Note 28. 

The German hackbiit-inen. — P. 23. 

In the wars with Scotland, Henry VIII. and 
his successors employed numerous bands of 
mercenary troops. At the battle of Pinky, there 
were in the English army six hundred hack- 
butters on foot, and two hundred on horseback, 
composed chiefly of foreigners. On the 27th of 
September, t54g, the Duke of Somerset, Lord 
Protector, writes thus to the Lord Dacre, warden 
of the West Marches: — "The Almains, m 
number two thousand, very valiant soldiers, 
shall be sent to you shortly from Newcastle, to- 
gether with Sir Thomas Holcroft, and with the 
force of your wardenry (which we would were 
advanced to the most strength of horsemen that 
might be), shall make the attempt to Lougli- 
maben, being of no such strength but that it 
may be skailed with ladders, whereof, before- 
hand, we would you caused secretly some 
number to be provided ; or else undermined 
with the pyke-axe, and so taken : either to be 
kept for the King's Majesty, or otherwise to be 
defaced, and taken from the profits of the 
enemy. And in like manner the house of Car- 
laverock to be used. '—History of Cujnber- 
landf vol. i. Introd" p. Ixi. 

Note 29. 

" Ready, aye ready," /or the field.-— Y. 23. 

Sir John Scott of Thirlestane flourished in 
the reign of James V., and possessed the estates 
of Thirlestane, Gamescleuch, &c., lying upon 
the river of Ettrick, and extending to .St. Mary's 
Loch, at the K^ad of Yarrow. It appears that 
when James had assembled his nobility and 
their feudal followers, at Fala, with the purpose 
of invading England, and was.as is well-known, 
disappointed by the obstinate refusal of his 
peers, this baron alone declared himself ready 
to follow the King wherever he should lead. In 
memory of his fidelity, James granted to his 
family a charter of arms, entitling them to beat- 
a border of fleurs-de-luce, similar to the trea- 
sure in the royal arms, with a bundle of spears 
tor the crest '■ motto, Ready, aye ready. 



Note 30. 
Their gathering wordivas Belletiden. — P. 25 
Bellenden is situated near the head of Borth 
wick water, and being in the centre of the pos- 
sessions of the Scotts, was frequently ufjcd as 
their place of rendezvous and gathering word. 

Note 31. 
That he may suffer 3nari:h-treason pain.— 

P. 27, 
Several species of offences, peculiar to the 
Border, constituted what was called march- 
treason. Among others, was the crime oi 
riding, or causing to ride, against the opposite 
country during the time of truce. Thus, in an 
indenture made on the 25th day of March, 1334, 
betwixt nobie lords Sirs Henry Percy, Earl of 
Northumberland, and Archibald Douglas, Lord 
of Galloway, a truce is agreed upon until the 
ist day of July, and it is expressly accorded, 
" Gif ony stellis authir on the ta part, or on the 
tothyr, that he shall be haiiget or heofdit ; and 
gif ony company stellis any gudes within the 
trieux beforesayd, ane of that company sail be 
hanget or heofdit, and the remnant sail restore 
the guyds stolen in the dubble." — History oj 
IV esttnor eland and Cuvtberland, Introd. p. 
xxxix. 

Note 32. 
Knighthoodhe took of Douglas' s7vord. — P. 27. 
The dignity of knighthood, according to the 
original institution, had this peculiarity, that it 
did not flow from the monarch, but could be 
conferred by one who himself possessed it, upon 
any squire who, after due probation, was found 
to merit the honor of chivalry. Lattt-rly, this 
power was confined to generals, who were wont 
to create knights bannerets after or before an 
engagement. 

Note 33. 
When English blood swelV d A ncram" s/ord.— 

P. 27. 

The battle of Ancram Moor, m Penielheuch, 
was fought A. D. 1545. The English, com- 
manded "by Sir Ralph Evers and Sir Brian 
Latoun, ware totally routed, and both their 
leaders slain in the action. The Scottisli army 
was commanded by Archibald Douglas, Earl ot 
Angus, assisted by the Laird of Buccleuch ana 
Norman Lesley. 

Note 34. 

For -who, in field or foray slack. 

Saw the blanche lion e'er fall back. — P. 28. 

This was the cognizance of the noble house 
of Howard in all its branches. The crest, or 
bearing of a warrior, was often used as a 
nomine de guerre. 

Note 35. 
The Bloody Heart blazed in the van, 
A nnouncing Douglas, dreaded natne. — P. 30. 

The chief of this potent race of heroes, about 






1^ 



592 



APPENDIX. 



the date of the poem, was Archibald Douglas, 
seventh Earl of Angus, a man of great courage 
and activity. The Bloody Heart was the well- 
known cognizance of the House of Douglas, 
assumed from the time of good Lord James, to 
whose care Robert Bruce committed his heart, 
to be carried to the Holy Land. 

Note 36. 

And Siuinton laidtJie lance in rest. 
That tained of yore the sparkling crest 
Of Clarence's Pla}itage7iet. — P 30. 
At the battle of Beaug^, m France, Thomas, 
Duke of Clarence, brother to Henry V., was 
unhorsed by Sir John Swinton, of Swinton, who 
distinguished him by a coronet set with precious 
stones, which he wore around his helmet. The 
family of Swinton is one of the most ancient 
in Scotland, and produced many celebrated 
warriors. 

Note 37. 
A nd shouting still, A Home ! a Home ! — P. 30. 

The Earls of Home, as descendants of the 
Dunbars, ancient Earls of March, carried a 
Iton rampant, argent : but, as a difference, 
changed the co'or of the shield from gules to 
vert, m allusion to Greenlaw, their ancient 
possession. The slogan or war-cry of this 
powerful family, was, "A Home! a Home! " 
It was anciently placed m an escrol above the 
crest. The helmet is armed with a lion's head 
erased gules, with a cap of state gules, turned 
up ermine. 

The Hepburns, a powerful family in East 
Lothian, were usually in close alliance with the 
Homes. The chief of this clan was Hepburn, 
Lord of Hailes : a family which terminated in 
the too famous Earl of Bothwell. 

Note 38. 

' Tivixt truce, and war such sudden change 
Was 7iot iiifreguettt, nor held strange. 
In the old Border-day. — P. 30. 

Notwithstanding the constant wars upon the 
Borders, and the occasional cruelties which 
marked the mutual inroads, the inhabitants on 
either side do not appear to have regarded each 
other with that violent and personal animosity 
which might have been expected. On the con- 
trary, like the outposts of hostile armies, they 
often carried on something resembling friendly 
intercourse, even in the middle of hostilitifcs ; 
and it is evident, from various ordinances 
against trade and intermarriages, between Eng- 
lish and Scottish Borderers, that the govern- 
ments of both countries were jealous of their 
cherishing too intimate a connection. 

Note 39. 

on the darkening filane, 

Lffud hollo, whoop, or ivhistle ran. 



As battds, their stragglers to regain. 

Give the shrill watchword of their clan. — 
P. 3'. 
Patten remarks, with bitter censure, the dis- 
orderly conduct of the English Borderers, who 
attended the Protector Somerset on his expe- 
dition against Scotland. 

Note 40. 

She wrought not by forbiddcM spell. — P. 35, 
Popular belief, though contrary to the doc- 
trines of the Church, made a favorable dis- 
tinction betwixt magicians and necromancers, 
or wizards : the former were supposed to com- 
mand the evil spirits, and the latter to serve, 
or at least to be in league and compact with, 
those enemies of mankind. The arts of sub- 
jecting the demons were manifold ; sometimes 
the fiends were actually swindled by the ma- 
gicians.* 

Note 41. 

A merlin sat upon her wrist. 

Held by a ceash of silken twist. — P. 36. 

A xnerlin, or sparrow-hawk, was actually 
carried by ladies of rank, as a falcon was, in 
time of peace, the constant attendant of a 
knight or baron. See Latham on Falconry. 
— Godscroft relates, that when Mary of Lor- 
raine was regent she pressed the Earl of Angus 
to admit a royal garrison into his Castle of 
Tantallon. To this he returned no direct an- 
swer ; but, as if apostrophizing a goss-hawk, 
which sat on his wrist, and which he was feed- 
ing during the Queen's speech, he exclaimed, 
"The devil's in this greedy glede, she will 
never be full.'' Hume's History of the House 
of Douglas, 1743, vol. li. p. 131. Barclay 
complains of the common and indecent practice 
of bringing hawks and hounds into churches. 

Note 42. 

A nd /irincely peacock' s gilded train. 

And o'er the boar-head garnished brave. — 

P. 36. 

The peacock, it is well known, was con- 
sidered, during the times of chivalry, not 
merely as an exquisite delicacy, but as a dish 
of peculiar solemnity. After being roasted, it 
was again decorated with its plumage, and a 
sponge, dipped in lighted spirits of wine, wag 
placed in its bill. When it was introduced on 
days of grand festival, it was the signal for the 
adventurous knights to take upon them vows 
to do some deed of chivalry, "before the 
peacock and the ladies." 

The boar's head was also a usual dish of 
feudal splendor. In Scotland it was some- 
times surrounded with little banners displaying 
the colors and achievements of the baron at 



* There are some amusing German and Irish 
stories to that effect. 







MARMIUN. 



593 



whose board it was served. — Pinkerton's 
History, vol. i. p. 432. 

Note 43. 

Stnoie, with his gauntlet, stout Hunthill. — 

P. 36- 
The Rutherfords of Hunthill were an an- 
cient race of Border Lairds, whose names occur 
in history, sometimes as defending the frontier 
against the English, sometimes as disturbing 
the peace of their own country. Dickon Draw- 
the-sword was son to the ancient warrior, 
called in tradition the Cock of Hunthill, re- 
markable for leading into battle nine sons, 
gallant warriors, all sons of the aged champion. 

Note 44. 

bit his glove. — P. 36. 

To bite the thumb, or the glove, seems not 
to have been considered, upon the Border, as a 
gesture of contempt, though so used by Shaks- 
peare, but as a pledge of mortal revenge. It is 
yet remembered, that a young gentleman of 
Teviotdale, on the morning after a hard drink- 
ing-bout, observed that he had bitten his glove. 
He instantly demanded of his companion with 
whom he had quarrelled? And, learning that 
he had had words with one of the party, in- 
sisted on instant satisfaction, asserting that 
though he remembered nothing of the dispute, 
yet he was sure he never would have bit his 
glove unless he had received some unf)ardona- 
ble insult. He fell in the duel, which was 
fought near Selkirk, in 1721. 

Note 45. 

old Albert GrcEvie, 

The Minstrel of that ancient name. — P. 37. 
" John Graeme, second son of Malice, Earl 
of Monteith, commonly surnamed John -with 



the Bright Sword, upon some displeasure risen 
against him at court, letired with many of his 
clan and kindred into the English Borders, in 
the reign of King Henry the Fourth, where 
they seated themselves ; and many of their 
posterity have continued ever since. Mr. 
Sandford, speaking of them, says (which in- 
deed was applicable to most of the Borderers 
on both sides), ' They were all stark moss- 
troopers, and arrant thieves : both to England 
and Scotland outlawed ; yet sometimes con- 
nived at, because they gave intelligence forth 
of Scotland, and would raise 400 horse at any 
time upon a raid of the English into Scotland. 
A saying is recorded of a mother to her son, 
(which is now become proverbial,) Ride, Rotv 
ley, hougKs V the pot : that is, the last piece of 
beef was in the pot, and therefore it was high 
time for him to go and fetch more.' " — /ntrO' 
duction to the History of Cumberland. 

Note 46. 
Who has not heard oj Surrey'' s fame ? — P. 37. 

The gallant and unfortunate Henry Howard* 
Earl of Surrey, was unquestionably the most 
accomplished cavalier of his time ; and his 
sonnets display beauties which would do 
honor to a more polished age. He was be- 
headed on Tower-hill in 154& ; a victim to the 
mean jealousy of Henry VIII., who could not 
iaear so brilliant a character near his throne. 

The song of the supposed bard is founded on 
an incident said to have happened to the Earl 
in his travels. Cornelius Agrippa, the cele- 
brated alchemist, showed him in a looking- 
glass the lovely Geraldine, to whose service he 
had devoted his pen and his sword. The 
vision represented her as indisposed, and re- 
clining upon a couch, reading her lover's verses 
by the light of a waxen taper. 



MARMION. 



Note i. 

As when the Champion of the Lake 
Enters Morgana'' s fated house, 
Or in the Chapel Perilous, 
Despising spells and dejnons^ force, 
Holdsconverse with the unburied corse . — P.47. 
The romance of the Morte Arthur contains a 
sort of abridgemeiit of the most celebrated ad- 
ventures of the Round Table ; and, being writ- 
ten in comparatively modem language, gives 
the general reader an excellent idea of what 
romances of chivalry actually were. It has 



also the merit of being written in pure old 
English ; and many of the wild adventures 
which it contains are told with a simplicity 
bordering upon the sublime. Several of these 
are referred to in the text ; and I would have 
illustrated them by more full extracts, but as 
this curious work is about to be republished, 
I confine myself to the tale of the Chapel 
Perilous, and of the quest of Sir Launcelot 
after the Sangreal. 

" Right so Sir Launcelot departed, and 
when he came to the Chapell Perilous, he 
alighted downe, and tied his horse to a little 




C— f- 






594 



APPENDIX 



gate. And as soon as he was within the 
churchyard, he saw on the front of the chapellj 
many faire rich shields turned upside downe ; 
and many of the shields Sir Launcelot had 
seene knights have before ; with that he saw 
stand by him thirtie great knights, more, by a 
yard, than any man that ever he had seene, 
and all those grinned and gnashed at Sir 
Launcelot ; and when he saw their counte- 
nance, hee dread them sore, and so put his 
shield afore him, and tooke his sword in his 
hand, ready to due battaile ; and they were all 
armed in black harneis, ready, with their 
shields and swords drawn. And when Sir 
Launcelot would have gone through them, 
they scattered on every side of him, and gave 
him the way ; and therewith he wa'ced all bold, 
and entered into the chapell, and then hee saw 
no light but a dijnme lampe burning, and then 
was he ware of a corps covered with a cloath 
ot silke ; then Sir Launcelot stooped downe, 
and cut a piece of that cloth away, and then it 
fared under hnii as the earth had quaked a 
little, whereof he was afeard, and then hee saw 
a faire sword lye by the dead knight, and that 
he gat in his hand, and hied him out of the 
chappell. As soon as he was in the chappell- 
yerd, all the knights spoke to him with a 
grimly voice, and said, " Knight, Sir Launce- 
lot, lay that sword from thee, or else thou shalt 
die.' — ' Whether I live or die,' said Sir Launce- 
lot, * with no great words get yee it againe, 
therefore fight for it and yee list.' Therewith 
he passed through them; and, beyond the chap- 
pell-yerd, there met him a faire damosell, and 
said, ' Sir Launcelot, leave that sword behind 
thee, or thou wilt die for it.' — ' I will not leave 
it,' said Sir Launcelot, ' for no threats.' — 'No ' ' 
said she, ' and ye did leave that sword, Queen 
Guenever should ye never see.' — ' Then were I 
a fool and 1 would leave this sword,' said Sir 
Launcelot. — ' Now, gentle knight,' said the 
damosell, 'I require thee to kiss me once.' — 
' Nay,' said Sir Launcelot, ' that God forbid ! ' 
' Well, sir,' said she, 'and thou haddest kissed 
me thy life dayes had been done, but now, 
alas ! ' said slie, ' I have lost all my labor ; for 
I ordeined this chappell for thy sake, and for 
Sir Gawaine ; and once I had Sir Gawaine 
within it ; and at that time he fought with that 
knight which there lietli dead in yonder chap- 
pell, Sir Gilbert the bastard, and at that time 
hee smote off Sir Gilbert the bastard's left 
hand. And so. Sir Launcelot, now I tell thee, 
that I have loved thee these seaven yeare ; but 
there may no woman have thy love but Queene 
Guenever ; but sithen I may not rejoyice thee 
to have thy body alive, I had kept no more joy , 
in this world but to have had thy dead body ; ■ 
and I would have balmed it and served, and so 
have kept it in my life dales, and daily I should 
have clipped thee, and kissed thee, in the 
despite of Queen Guenever.' — ' Yee say well,' 
said Sir Launcelot ; ' Jesus preserve me from 
your subtill craft.' And therewith he took his 
horse and departed from her."' 



Note 2. 

A sin/nl man, and ttncoti/ess''d, 

He took the Sangreats holy qtiest, 

A Jid, slumbering, saw the vision high. 

He might not viewwiih waking eye — P.47. 

One day, when Arthur was holding a high 
feast with his knights of the Round Table, the 
Sangreal, or vessel out of which the last pass- 
over was eaten (a precious relic, which had 
long remained concealed from human eyes, 
because of the sins of the land), suddenly ap 
peared to him and all his chivalry. The con- 
sequence of this vision was, that all the knights 
took on them a solemn vow to seek the San- 
greal. But alas ! it could only be revealed to 
a knight at once accomplished in earthly 
chivalry, and pure and guiltless of evil conver- 
sation. All Sir Launcelot's noble accomplish- 
ments were thevetbre rendered vain by his 
guilty intrigue with Queen Guenever or 
Ganore ; and in his holy quest he encountered 
only such disgraceful disasters as that which 
follows : — 

"But Sir Launcelot rode overthwart and 
endlong in a wild forest, and held no path but 
as wild adventure led him ; and at the last he 
came unto a stone crosse, which departed two 
wayes, in wast land ; and, by the crosse, was 
a stone that was of marble ; but it was so dark, 
that Sir Launcelot miglit not well know what 
it was. Then Sir Launcelot looked by him, 
and saw an old chappell, and there he wend to 
have found people. And so Sir Launcelot tied 
his horse to a tree, and there he put off his 
shield, and hung it upon a tree, and then hee 
went unto the chappell doore, and found it wast- 
ed and broken. And within he found a faire 
altar, full richly arrayed with cloth of silk, and 
there stood a faire candlestick, which beare six 
great candles, and the candlesticke was of 
silver. And when .Sir Launcelot saw this light, 
he had a great will for to enter into the chap- 
pell, but he could find no place where hee 
might enter. Then was hee passing heavie 
and dismaied. Then hee returned, and came 
againe to his horse, and tooke off his saddle 
and his bridle, and let him pasture, and unlaced 
his helme, and ungirded his sword, and laid 
him downe to sleepe upon his shield, before 
the crosse. 

"And so hee fell on sleepe; and, halfe 
waking and halfe sleeping, he saw come by 
him two palfreys, both faire and white, the 
which beare a litter, therein lying a sicke 
knight. And when he was nigh the crosse, he 
there abode still. All tliis Sir Launcelot saw 
and beheld, for hee slept not verily, and hee 
heard him say, ' O sweete l/ord, when shall 
this sorrow leave me, and when shall the holy 
vessell come by me, where through I shall be 
blessed, for I have endured thus long for little 
trespasse ! ' And thus a great while complained 
the knight, and alwaies Sir Launcelot heard it. 
With that Sir Launcelot saw the candlesticke. 







MARMION 



595 



with the fire tapers, come before the crosse ; 
but he could see nobody that brought it. Also 
there came a table of silver, and the holy 
vessell of the Sancgreall, the which Sir Launce- 
lot had seen before that time in King Pet- 
chour's house. And therewithall the sicks 
knight set him upright, and held up both his 
hands, and said, ' Faire sweete Lord, which is 
here within the holy vessell, take heede to 
mee, that I may bee hole of this great mal- 
ady ! ' And tli^-rewith upon his hands, and 
■jpon his knees, he went so nigh, that he 
touched the holy vessell and kissed it: And 
anon he was hole, and then he said, ' Lord 
God, I thank tliee, for I am healed of this 
malady.' Soo when the holy vessell had been 
there a great while, it went into the chappelle 
againe, with the candlesticke and the light, so 
that Sir Launcelot wist not where it became, 
for he was overtaken with sinne; that hee had 
no power to arise against the holy vessell, 
wherefore afterward many men said of him 
shame. But he tooke repentance afterward. 
Then the sicke knight dressed him upright, and 
kissed the crosse. Then anon his squire 
brought him his armes, and asked his lord how 
he did. ' Certainly,' said hee, ' I thanke God 
right heartily, for through the holy vessell I am 
healed : But I have right great mervaile of 
this sleeping knight, whicn hath had neither 
grace nor power to awake during the time that 
this holy vessell hath beene here present.' — ' I 
dare it right well say,' said the squire, ' that 
this same knight is defouled with some manner 
of deadly sinne, whereof he has never con- 
fessed.' — ' By my faith,' said the knight, 
' whatsoever he be he is unhappie ; for, as I 
deeme, hee is of the fellowship of the Round 
Table, the which is entered into the quest of 
the Sancgreall.' — ' Sir,' said the squire, 'here 
I have brought you all your armes, save your 
helmeand your sword ; and, therefore, by mine 
assent, now may ye take this knight's helme 
and his sword ; ' and so he did. And when he 
was cleane armed, he took Sir Launcelot's 
horse, for he tvas better than his owne, and so 
they departed from the crosse. 

"Then anon Sir Launcelot awaked, and set 
himselfe upright, and he thought him what hee 
hacT there seene, and whether it were dreames 
or not ; right so he heard a voice that said, 
' Sir Launcelot, more hardy than is the stone, 
and more bitter than is the wood, and more 
naked and bare than is the liefe of the fig-tree, 
therefore go thou from hence, and withdraw 
thee from this holy place ' and when Sir 
ijauncelot heard this he was passing heavy, 
and wist not what to doe. And so he departed 
.sorr weeping, and cursed the time that he was 
borne ; for then he deemed never to have had 
more worship ; for the words went unto his 
heart, till that he knew wherefore that hee was 
so called " 



Note 3. 

And Dry den, in immortal sir ain^ 

Had raised the Table Round again. — P. 47. 

Dryden's melancholy account of his pro- 
jected Epic Poem, blasted by the selfish and 
sordid parsimony of his patrons, is contained in 
an " Essay on Satire," addressed to the Earl 
of Dorset, and prefixed to the Translation ot 
Juvenal. After mentioning a plan of supplying 
machinery from the guardian angels of king- 
doms, mentioned in the Book of Daniel, he 
adds : — 

"Thus, my lord, I have, as briefly as I 
could, given your lordship, and by you the 
world, a rude draught of what I have been 
long laboring in my imagination, and what 
I had intended to have put in practice ; 
(though far unable for the attempt of such a 
poem ;) and to have left the. stage, to which 
my genius never much inclined me, for a 
work which would have taken up my life in 
the performance of it. This, too, I had in- 
tended chiefly for the honor of my native 
country, to which a poet is particularly obliged. 
Of two subjects, both relating to it, I was 
doubtful whether I should choose that of King 
Arthur conquering the Saxons, which, being 
farther distant in time, gives the greater scope 
to my invention ; or that of Edward the Black 
Prince, in subduing Spain and restoring it to 
the lawful prince, though a great tyrant, Don 
Pedro the Cruel ; which, for the compass ef 
time, including only the expedition of one year, 
for the greatness of the action and its answer- 
able event, for the magnanimity of the English 
hero, opposed to the ingratitude of the person 
whom he restored, and for the many beautiful 
episodes which I had interwoven with the 
principal design, together with the characters 
of the chiefest English persons, (wherein, after 
Virgil and Spenser, I would have taken occasion 
to represent my living friends and patrons of the 
noblest families, and also shadowed the everits 
of future ages in the succession of our imperial 
line,) — with these helps, and those of the 
machines which I have mentioned, I might 
perhaps have done as well as some of my pre- 
decessors, or at least chalked out a way for 
others to amend my errors in a like design ; but 
being encouraged only with fair words by King 
Charles II., my little salary ill paid, and nc 
prospect of future subsistence, I was then dis 
couragtd in the beginning of my attempt ; and 
now age has overtaken me, and want, a more 
insufferable evil, through the change of the 
times, has wholly disabled me." 

Note 4. 

Their theme the merry minstrels made, 
Of Ascapart, and Bevis bold. — P. 4S. 

The " History of Bevis of Hamptoc " is 
abridged by my friend Mr. George Ellis., with 
that liveliness which extracts amusement even 



.J,l 







596 



APPENDIX. 



out of the most rude and unpromising of our 
old tales of chivalry. Ascapart, a most impor- 
tant personage in the romance, is thus described 
in an extract : — 

'' This geaunt was mighty and strong. 
And full thirty foot was long. 
He was bristled like a sow ; 
A foot he had between each brow : 
His lips were great, and hung aside ; 
His eyen were hollow, his mouth was wide ; 
Lothly he was to look on than, 
And liker a devil than a man. 
His staff was a young oak. 
Hard and heavy was his stroke." 

Specimens of Metrical Romances, 
vol. ii. p. 136. 

I am happy to say that the memory of Sir 
Bevis is still fragrant in his town of Southamp- 
ton; the gate of which is sentinelled by the 
effigies of that doughty knight-errant and his 
gigantic associate. 

Note 5. 
Day set on Norha^n's castled steep, 
A nd Tweed's/air river, broad and deep, b'c. 

P. 48. 
The ruinous castle of Norham (anciently 
called Ubbanford), is situated on the southern 
bank of the Tweed, about six miles above Ber- 
wick, and where that river is still the boundary 
between England and Scotland. The extent of 
Its ruins, as well as its historical importance, 
shows it to have been a place of magnificence, 
as well as strength. Edward I. resided there 
when he was created umpire of the dispute con- 
cerning the Scottish succession. It was re- 
peatedly taken and retaken during the wars 
between England and Scotland ; and, indeed, 
scarce any happened in which it had not a 
principal share. Norham Castle is situated on 
a steep bank which overhangs the river. The 
repeated sieges which the castle had sustained 
rendered frequent repairs necessary. In 1164, 
it was almost rebuilt by Hugh Pudsey, Bishop 
of Durham, who added a huge keep or donjon ; 
notwithstanding which King Henry II., in 
1174, took the castle from the bishop and com- 
mitted the keeping of it to William de Neville. 
After this period it seems to have been chiefly 
garrisoned by the King, and considered as a 
royal fortress. The Greys of Chillingham 
Castle were frequently the castellans, or cap- 
tains of the garrison ; yet, as the castle was 
situated in the patrimony of St. Cuthbert, the 
property was in the see of Durham till the Ref- 
orrnation. After that period it passed through 
various hands. At the union of the crowns,"it 
was in the possession of Sir Robert Carey (after- 
wards Earl of Monmouth), for his own life, and 
that of two of his sons. After King James's 
accession, Carey sold Norham Castle to George 
Home, Earl of Dunbar, for 6000/. See his 
curious Memoirs, published by Mr. Constable 
of Edinburgh. 



According to Mr. Pinkerton, there is, in the 
British Museum, Cal. B. 6, 216, a curious 
memoir of the Dacres on the state of Norham 
Castle in 1522, not long after the battle of 
Flodden. The inner ward, or keep, is repre- 
sented as impregnable : "The provisions are 
three great vats of salt eels, forty-four kine, 
three hogsheads of salted salmon, forty quarters 
of grain, besides many cows and four hundred 
sheep, lying under the castle-wall nightly ; but 
a number of the arrows wanted feathers, and a 
good Fletcher {i. e. maker of arrows) was re- 
quired." — History of Scotland, vol. ii. p. 201, 
note. 

The ruins of the castle are at present con- 
siderable, as well as picturesque. They consist 
of a large shattered tower, with many vaults, 
and fragments of other edifices enclosed within 
an outward wall of great circuit. 

Note. 6. 
The battled towers, the donjon keep. — P. 48. 
It is perhaps unnecessary to remind my 
readers that the donjon, in its proper significa- 
tion, means the strongest part of a feudal castle ; 
a high square tower, with walls of a tremendous 
thickness, situated in the centre of the other 
buildings, from which, however, it was usually 
detached. Here, in case of the outward de- 
fences being gained, the garrison retreated to 
make their last stand. The donjon contained 
the great hall and principal rooms of state for 
solemn occasions, and also the prison of the for- 
tress ; from which last circumstance we derive 
the modern and restricted use of the word 
dungeoti. Ducange K.voce DuNjo) conjectures 
plausibly, that the name is derived from these 
keeps being usually built upon a hill, which in 
Celtic IS called Dun. Borlase supposes the 
word came from the darkness of the apartments 
in these towers, which were thence figuratively 
called Dungeons ; thus deriving the ancient 
word from the modern application of it. 

Note 7. 
Well was he arjn'dfrom head to heel. 
In mad and plate of Milan steel.- — P. 49. 

The artists of Milan were famous in the 
Middle Ages for their skill in armory, as ap- 
pears from the following passage, in which 
Froissart gives an account of the preparations 
made by Henry. Earl of Hereford, afterwards 
Henry IV., and Thomas. Duke of Norfolk. 
Earl Marischal, for their proposed combat in 
the lists at Coventry: "These two lords made 
ample provision of all things necessary for the 
combat ; and the Earl of Derby sent off mes- 
sengers to Lombardy, to have armor from Sir 
Galeas, Duke of Milan. The Duke complied 
with joy, and gave the knight, called Sir 
Francis, who had brought the message, the 
choice of all his armor for the Earl of Derby. 
When he had selected what he wished for in 
plated and mail armor, the Lord of Milan, out 




MARMION. 



597 



of his abundant love ior the Earl, ordered four 
of the best armorers in Milan to accompany 
the knight to England, that the Earl of Derby 
might be more completely armed." — Johnes' 
Froissart, vol. iv. p. 597. 

Note S. 

Who checks at me, to death is dight.—^. 49- 

The crest and motto of Marmion are bor- 
rowed from the following story :— Sir David de 
Lindsay, first Earl of Crauford, was, among 
other gentlemen of quality, attended during a 
visit to London, in 1390, by Sir William Dalzell, 
who was, according to my authority, Bower, 
not only excelling in wisdom, but also of a lively 
wit. Chancing to bo at the court, he there saw 
Sir Piers Courtenay, an English liuight, famous 
for skill in tilting, and for the beauty of his 
person, parading the palace, arrayed in a new 
mantle, bearing for device an embroidered 
falcon, with this rhyme, — 

" I bear a falcon, fairest of flight, 

Whoso pinches at her, his death is dight • 
In graith."t 

The Scottish knight, being a wag, appeared 
next day in a dress exactly similar to that of 
Courtenay, but bearing a magpie instead of the 
falcon, with a motto ingeniously contrived to 
rhyme to the vaunting inscription of Sir 
Piers : — 

' I bear a pie picking at a piece. 
Whoso picks at her, I shall pick at hisnese,t 
In faith." 

This affront could only be expiated by a joust 
with sharp lances. In the course, Dalzell left 
his helmet unlaced, so thai it gave way at the 
touch of his antagonist's lance, and he thus 
avoided the shock o£ the encounter. This 
happened twice : in the third encounter the 
handsome Courtenay lost two of his front teeth. 
As the Englishman complained bitterly of Dal- 
sell's fraud in not fastening his helmet, the 
Scottishman agreed to run six courses more, 
each champion staking in the hand of the King 
two hundred pounds, to be forfeited, if, on 
entering the list, any unequal advantage should 
be detected. This being agreed to, the wily 
Scot demanded that Sir Piers, in addition to the 
loss of his teeth, should consent to the extinc- 
tion ot one of his eyes, he himself having lost 
an eye in the fight of Otterburn. As Courtenay 
demurred to this equalization of optical powers, 
Dalzell demanded the forfeit ; which, after 
much altercation, the King appointed to be 
paid to him, saying, he surpassed the Eng.ish 
both in wit and valor. This must appear to 
the reader a singular specimen of the humor of 
that time. I suspect the Jockey Club would 
have given a different decision from Henry IV. 



* Prepared. t Armor. 



X Nose. 



Note 9. 

They haiP d Lord .Marmion : 
They hail' d hitn Lord of Fontenaye, 
Of Lutterivard, and Scrivelbaye, 

Of Tatnworth tower and town. — x . 49. 

Lord Marmion, the principal character of the 
present romance, is entirely a fictitious person- 
age. In earlier times, indeed, the family of 
Marmion, Lords of Fontenaye, in Normandy, 
was highly distinguished. Robert de Marmion, 
Lord of Fontenaye, a distinguished follower of 
the Conqueror, obtained a grant of the castle • 
and town of Tamworth, and also of the manor 
of Scrivelby, in Lincolnshire. One or bc'h of 
these noble possessions was held by the honor- 
able service of being the Royal Champion, as 
the ancestors of Marmion had formerly been to 
the Dukes of Normandy. But after the castle 
and demesne of Tamworth bad passed through 
four successive barons from Robert, the family 
became extinct in the person of Philip de 
Marmion, who died iii 20th Edward I. without 
issue male. He was succeeded in his castle of 
Tamworth by Alexander de Freville, who 
married Mazera, his grand-daughter. Baldwin 
de Freville, Alexander's descendant, in the 
reign of Richard 11., by the supposed tenure of 
his castle at Tamworth, claimed the office of 
Royal Champion, and to do the service apper- 
taining ; namely, on the day of coronation, to 
ride, completely armed, upon a barbed horse, 
into Westminster Hall, and there to challenge 
the combat against any who would gainsay the 
King's title. But this office was adjudged to 
Sir John Dyinoke, to whom the manor of 
Scrivelby had descended by another of the co- 
heiresses of Robert de Marmion ; and it re- 
mains in that family, wliose representative is 
Herditary Champion of England at the present 
day. The family and possessions of Freville 
have merged in the Earls of Ferrars. I have 
not, therefore, created a new family, but only 
revived the titles of an old one in an imaginary 
personage. 

It was one of the Marmion family, who, in 
the reign of Edward II., performed that chival- 
rous feat before the very castle of Norham, 
which Bishop Percy has woven into his beauti- 
ful ballad, " The Hermit of Warkworth." — The 
story is thus told by Leland • — 

" The Scottes cam yn to the marches of Eng- 
land, and destroyed the castles of Werk and 
Herbotel, and overran much of Northumber- 
land marches. 

" At this tyme, Thomas Gray and his friendes 
defended Norham from the Scottes. 

" It were a wonderful processe to declare,what 
mischefes cam by hungre and asseges by the 
space of xi years in Northumberland ; for the 
Scottes became so proude, after they had got 
Berwick, that they nothing esteemed the Eng- 
lishmen. 

" About this tyme there was a great feste 
made yn Lincolnshir, to which came many 





-t-71 




198 



APPENDIX. 



gentlemen and ladies ; and amonge them one 
lady brought a heaulme for a man of were, 
with a very riche creste of gold, to William 
Marmion, knight, with a letter of commande- 
ment of her lady, that he should go into the 
c'aungerest place in England, and ther to let the 
heaulme be seene and known as famous. So 
he went to Norham ; whither, within 4 days of 
cumming, cam Philip Moubray, guardian of 
Berwicke, having yn his bande 40 men of 
amies, the very flour of men of the Scottish 
inarches. 

■' Thomas Gray, capitayne of Norham, seynge 
this, brought his garison afore the barriers of 
the castel, behind whom cam William, richly 
arrayed, as al glittering in gold, and wearing 
the heaulme, his lady's present. 

" Then said Thomas Grav to Marmion, ' Sir 
Knight, ye be cum hither tc fame your helmet : 
mount upon yowr horse, and ride lyke a valiant 
man to yowr foes even here at hand, and 1 for- 
sake God if I rescue not thy body deade or 
alyve, or I myself wyl dye for it.' 

" Whereupon he toke his cursere, and rode 
among the throng of enemyes ; the which layed 
sore stripes on him, and pulled him at the last 
out of his sadel to the grounde. 

" Then Thomas Gray, with al the hole gar- 
rison, lette prick yn among the Scottes, and so 
wondid them and their horses, that they were 
overthrowan ; and Marmion, sore beten, was 
horsid agayn, and, with Gray, persewed the 
Scottes yn chase. There were taken fifty horse 
of price ; and the women of Norham brought 
them to the foote men to follow the chase." 

Note ro. 

Sir Hugh the Heron bold, 
Baro7t 0/ Tt lisel, and of Ford, 
And Captain 0/ the Hold.—V. 50. 

Were accuracy of any consequence in a fic- 
titious narrative, this castellan's name ought to 
have been William; for William Heron of Ford 
was husband to the famous Lady Ford, whose 
siren charms are said to have cost our James 
IV. so dear. Moreover, the said William Heron 
■was, at the time supposed, a prisoner in Scot- 
land, being surrendered by Henry VIII., on ac- 
count of his share in the slaughter of Sir Robert 
Ker of Cessford. His wife, represented in the 
ext as residing at the Court of Scotland, was, 
in fact, living in her own Castle at Ford. — See 
Sir Richard Heron's curious Geneaology 0/ 
the Heron Family. 

Note ii. 
yafnes back' d the cause of that mock prince^ 
Warbeck, that Fle^nish counterfeit, 
Who on tile gibbet paid the cheat. 
Then did I march with Surrey's power. 
What time ive razed old Ayton ioiver. — P. 51. 
The story of Perkin Warbeck, or Richard, 
Duke of York, is well known. In 1496 he was 
received honorably in Scotland ; and James 



IV., after conferring upon him in marriage his 
own relation, the Lady Catherine Gordon.made 
war on England in beha'f of his pretensions. 
To retaliate an invasion of England, Surrey 
advanced into Berwickshire at the head of con- 
siderable forces, but retreated, after taking the 
inconsiderable fortress of Ayton. 

Note 12. 

/ trotVf 

Norhatn can find you guides enow ; 
For here be some have pricked as far. 
On Scottish ground, as to Dunbar ; 
Have drunk the monks of St. Boihan's ale 
And driven the beeves of Lauderdale ; 
Harried the wives of Greenlaiv' s goods. 
And given them light to set their hoods. — 

P. SI. 
The garrisons of the English castles of Wark, 
Norham, and Berwick, were, as may be easily 
supposed, very troublesome neighbors to Scot- 
land. Sir Richard Maitland of Ledington 
wrote a poem, called "The Blind Baron's Com- 
fort ; " when his barony of BIythe in Lauder- 
dale was harriedhy Rowland Foster, the Eng- 
glish captain of Wark, with his company, to the 
number of 300 men. They spoiled the poetical 
knight of 5000 sheep, 200 nolt, 30 horses and 
mares ; the whole furniture of his house of 
BIythe, worth 100 pounds Scots (8/. bs. 8^.,)and 
everything else that was portable. 

Note 13. 

The priest qf Shoresivood^he could rein 
Tlie wildest war-horse inyo7ir train. — P. 51. 
This churchman seems to have been akin to 
Welsh, the vicar of St. Thomas of Exeter, a 
leader among the Cornish insurgents in 1549. 
" This man,'' says Holinshed, "had manygood 
things in him. He was of no great stature, but 
well set, and mightilie compact. He was a very 
good wrestler ; shot well, both in the longbow 
and also in the crossbow ; he handled his hand- 
gun and peece very well ; he was a very good 
woodman, and a hardie, and such a one as would 
not give his head for the polling, or his beard for 
the washing. He was a companion in any exer~ 
cise of activitie, and of a courteous and gentle 
behaviour. He descended of a good honest pa- 
rentage, being borne at Peneverin in Cornwall; 
and yet, 'n this rebellion, an arch-captain ands 
principal doer." — Vol. iv. p. 958, 4to edition 
This model of clerical talents had the misfortunt 
to be hanged upon the steeple of his own church 

Note 14. 

that Grot ivhere Olives nod. 

Where, darling of each heart c^nd eye, 
Frotn all the youth of Sicily 

Saint Rosalie retired to God. — P. 52. 
" Santa Rosalia was of Palermo, and born of 
a very noble family, and when very young ab- 
horred so much the vanities of this world, and 
avoided the converse of mankind, resolving to 




'W 





MARMION. 



599 




dedicate herself whul'y to God Almighty, that 
she, by Divine inspiration, forsook her father's 
house, and never was more heard of till her 
body was found in that cleft of a rock, on that 
almost inaccessible mountain, where now the 
chapel is built ; and they affirm she was carried 
u|) there by th«! hands of angels ; for that place 
was not formerly so accessible (as now it is) in 
the days of the Saint : and even now it is a very 
Dad, and steepy, and breakneck way. In this 
frightful place, this holy woman lived a great 
many years, feeding only on what she found 
growing on that barren mountain, and creeping 
into a narrow and dreadful cleft in a rock, 
which was always dropping wet, and was her 
place of retirement as well as prayer ; having 
worn out even the rock with her knees in a cer- 
tain place, which is now opened on purpose to 
show it to those who come here. This chapel is 
very richly r.dorn'd ; and on the spot where the 
Saint's dead body was discovered whi^h is Just 
beneath the hole in the rock, which is opened 
on purpose, as I said, there is a very fine statue 
of marble representing her in a lying posture, 
railed in all about with fine iron and brass work ; 
and the altar, on which they say mass, is built 
just over it." — Voyage to Sicily and Malta, by 
Sir John Dryden (son to the poet), p. 107. 

Note 15. 

Friar John 

h imself still sleeps before his beads 

Have tnarked ten aves, and two creeds. — 

P. 52. 

Friar John understood the soporific virtue of 
his beads and breviary as well as his name- 
sake in Rabelais. " But Gargantua could not 
sleep by any means, on which side soever he 
turned himself, whereupon the monk said to 
him, * 1 never sleep soundly but when I am at 
sermon or prayers. Let us therefore begin, 
you and I, the seven penitential psalms, to try 
whether you shall not quickly fall asleep.' The 
conceit pleased Gargantua very well ; and be- 
ginning the first of these psalms, as soon as they 
came to Beati quorum, they fell asleep, botli 
the one and the other." 

Note 16. 
The S7unmo?i' d Palmer came in place. — P. 52. 
A Palmer, opposed to a Pilgrim, was one 
who made it his sole business to visit different 
holy shrines ; travelling incessantly, and sub- 
sisting by charity : whereas the Pilgrim retired 
to his usual home and occupations, when he 
had paid his devotions at the particular spot 
which was the object of his pilgrimage. The 
Palmers seem to have been the Questionarii oi 
the ancient Scottish canons 1242 and 1296. 

Note 17. 

TV /air St. A ndrews bound. 
Within the ocean-cave to pray. 



<:-4- 



Where good Saint Rule his holy lay. 

From midnight to the dawn 0/ day. 

Sung to the billows'' soutid. — P. 53. 

St. Regulus (Scotiice, St. Rule), a monk o£ 
Pairs, in Achaia, warned by a vision, is said, 
A. D. 370, to have sailed westward, until he 
landed at St. Andrews in Scotland, where he 
founded a chapel and tower. The latter is still 
standing, and, though we may doubt the pre- 
cise date ot its foundation, is certainly one of 
the most ancient edifices in Scotland. A cave, 
nearly fronting the ruinous castle of the Arch- 
bishops of St. Andrews, bears the name of this 
religious person. It is difficult of access ; and 
the rock in which it is hewn is washed by the 
German Ocean. It is nearly round, about ten 
feet in diameter, and the same in height. On 
one side is a sort of stone altar ; on the other 
an aperture into an inner den, where the miser- 
able ascetic who inhabited this dwelling prob- 
ably slept. At full tide, egress and regress 
are hardly practicable. As Regulus first colo- 
nized the metropolitan see of Scotland, and con- 
verted the inhabitants in the vicinity, he has 
some reason to complain, that the ancient name 
of Killrule (Cella Keguli) should have been 
superseded even in favor of the tutelar saint 
of Scotland. The reason of the change was, 
that St. Rule is said to have brought to Scot- 
land the relics of St. Andrew. 

Note 18. 

Saint Fillan^s blessed well, 

U 'hose spring can frenzied dreams dispel. 

And the crazed brain restore. — P. 53. 
St. Fillan was a Scottish saint of some repu- 
tation. Alt'nough Popery is, with us, matter of 
abomination, yet the common people still retain 
some of the superstitions connected with it. 
There are in Perthshire several wells and springs 
dedicated to St. Fillan, which are still places of 
pilgrimage and offerings, even among the Prot- 
estants. They are held powerful m cases of 
madness ; and, in some of very late occurrence, 
lunatics have been left all night bound to the 
holy stone, in confidence that the saint would 
cure and unloose them before morning. 

Note 19. 
The scenes are desert now, and bare, 
Where flourish^ d otice a forest fair.— P. 53. 
Eltiicn Forest, now a range of mountamouLS 
sheep-walks, was anciently reserved for the 
pleasure ot the royal chase. Since it was dts- 
parked, the wood has been, by degrees, al- 
most totally destroyed, although, wherevei 
protected from the sheep, copses soon arise 
without any planting. When the King hunted 
there, he often summoned the array of the 
country to meet and assist his sport. Thus, in 
1528, James V. made proclamr.tion to all lords, 
barons, gentlemen, landwardmen, and free- 
holders, that they should compear at Edin 




M 



y 




600 



APPENDIX. 



burgh, 'vith a month's victuals, to pass with the 
km? where he pleased, to dantou the thieves 
of i?iviotdale, Annandale, Liddisdale, and other 
parts of that country ; and also warned all gen- 
tlemen that had good dogs to brnig them, that 
he might hunt in the said country as he pleased : 
The whilk the Earl of Argyle, the Earl of 
Huntley, the Earl oi Athole, and so all the rest 
of the gentlemen of the Highland, did, and 
brought their hounds with them m hke manner, 
to hunt with the King, as he pleased. 

"The second day of June the King past out 
of Edinburgh to the hunting, with many of the 
oobles and gentlemen of Scotland with him, to 
the number of twelve thousand men ; and then 
past to Meggitland, and hounded and hawked 
all the country and bounds ; that is to say, 
Crammat, Pappertlaw, St. Marylaws, Carlav- 
rick. Chapel, Ewindoores, and Longhope. I 
heard say, he slew, in these bounds, eighteen 
score of harts."* 

These huntings had, of course, a military 
character, and attendance upon them was a 
part of the duty of a vassal. The act for abol- 
ishing ward or military tenures in Scotland, 
enumerates the services of hunting, hosting, 
watching and warding, as those which were in 
future to be illegal. 

Taylor, the water-poet, has given an account 
of the mode in which these huntings were con- 
ducted in the Highlands of Scotland, in the 
seventeenth century, having been present at 
Braemar upon such an occasion: — 

" There did I find the truly noble and right 
honourable lords, John Erskme, Earl of Mar ; 
James Stewart, Earl of Murray ; George Gor- 
don, Earl of Engye, son and heir to the Mar- 
quis of Huntley ; James Erskine, Earl of 
Buchan ; and John, Lord Erskine, son and 
heir to the Earl of Mar, and their Countesses, 
with my much honoured, and my last assured 
and approved friend, Sir William Murray, 
knight of Abercarney, and hundreds of others, 
knights, esquires, and their followers ; all and 
every man in general, in one habit, as if Ly- 
curgus had been there, and made laws of 
equality ; for once in the year, which is the 
whole month of August, and sometimes part of 
September, many of the nobility and gentry of 
the kingdom (for their pleasure) do come into 
these Highland countries to hunt; where they 
do conform themselves to the habit of the 
Highlandmen, who, for the most part, speak 
nothing but Irish; and, in former time, were 
those people which were called the Red-shaiik;. 
Their habit is — shoes, with but one sole a-]3iece; 
stockings (which they call short hose), made of 
a warm stuff of divers colours, which they call 
tartan ; as for breeches, many of them, nor 
their forefathers, never wore any, but a jerkin of 
the same stuff that their hose is of; their gar- 
ters being bands or wreaths of hay or straw ; 
with a plaid about their shoulder^ : which is a 



* Pitscottik's History of Scotland, folio 
edition, p. 143. 



mantle of divers colours, much finer and lightet 
stuff than their hose ; with blue flat caps on 
their heads ; a handkerchief, knit with two 
knots, about their necks ; and thus are ihey at- 
tired. Now their weapons are — long bowes 
and forked arrows, swords, and targets, harqu«- 
busses, muskets, durks, and Lochaber axes. 
With these arms I found many of them armed 
for the hunting. As for their attire, any man, 
of what degree soever, that comes amongst 
them, must not disdain to wear it ; for. if they 
do, then they will disdain to hunt, or willingly 
to bring in their dogs ; but if men Ue kind untc 
them, and be in their habit, then are they con. 
quered with kindness, and the sport will be 
plentiful. This was the reason that I found so 
many noblemen and gentlemen In those shapes. 
But to proceed to the hunting : — 

" My good Lord of Mar having put me into 
that shape, I rode with him from his house, 
where I saw the ruins of an old castle, called 
the Castle of Kindroghlt. It was built by King 
Malcolm Canmore (for a hunting-house), who 
reigned in Scotland, when Edward the Con' 
fessor, Harold, and Norman William, reigned 
in England. I speak of it, because it was the 
last house I saw in those parts ; for 1 was the 
space of twelve days after, before I saw eithei 
house, corn-field, or habitation for any creature 
but deer, wild horses, wolves, and such like 
creatures, — which made me doubt that I .should 
never have seen a house again. 

" Thus, the first day, we travelled eight 
miles, where there were small cottages built 
on purpose to lodge in, which they call Lon- 
quhards. I thank my good Lord Erskine, he 
commanded that I should always be lodged in 
his lodging: the kitchen being always on the 
side of a bank : many kettles and pots boiling, 
and many spits turning and winding, with great 
variety of cheer, — as venison baked ; sodden, 
rost, and stewed beef ; m.utton, goats, kid, 
hares, fresh salmon, pigeons, hens, capons, 
chickens, partridges, muir-coots, heath-cocks, 
caperkelhes, and termagants ; good ale, sacke, 
white and claret, tent (or allegant), with most 
potent aquavits. 

" All these, and more than these, we had 
continually in superfluous abundai.ce, caught 
by falconers, fowlers, fishers, and brousht by 
my lord's tenants and purveyors to victual our 
camp, which cousisteth of fourteen or fifteen 
hundred men and horses. The maimer of the 
hunting IS this: Five or six hundred men do 
rise early in the morning, and they do dispersa 
themselves divers ways, and seven, eight, or 
ten miles compass, they do bring, or chase in, 
the deer in many herds, (two, three, or four 
hundred m a herd,) to such or such a place, as 
the noblemen shall appoint them ; then, when 
day is come, the lords and gentlemen of their 
companies do ride or go to the said iilaces, 
sometimes wading up to the middles, through 
burns and rivers ; and then, they being come 
to the place, do he down on the ground, till 






MARMION. 




6oi 



those foresaid scouts, which are called the 
Tinkhell, do bring down the deer ; but, as the 
proverb says of the bad cook, so these tnikhell 
men do lick their own fingers ; for, besides 
their bows and arrows, which they carry with 
them, we can hear, now and then, a harquebuss 
or a musket go off, which they do seldom dis- 
charge in vain. Then, after we had staid 
there three hours or thereabouts, we might 
perceive the deer appear on the hills round 
about us (their heads making a show like a 
wood), winch, being followed close by the tink- 
hall, are ciiased down into the valley where we 
Jay ; then all the valley, on each side, being 
way-laid with a l-.undred couple of strong Irish 
greyhounds, they are all let loose, as occasion 
serves, upon the herd of deer, that with dogs, 
guns, arrows, durks, and daggers, m the space 
of two hours, fourscore fat deer were slain ; 
which after are disposed of some one way, and 
some another, twenty and thirty miles, and 
more than enough left for us, to make merry 
withall, at our rendezvous." 

Note 20. 

By lone Saint lifary' s silent take. — P. 55. 

This beautiful sheet of water forms the reser- 
voir from which the Yarrow takes its course. It 
is connected with a smaller lake, called the 
Loch of the Lowes, and surrounded by moun- 
tains. In the winter, it is still frequented by 
flights of wild swans ; hence my friend Mr. 
Wordsworth's hues ; — 

" The swan on sweet St. Mary's Lake 
Floats double, swan and shadow." 

Near the lower extremity of the lake, are 
the ruins of Dryhope tower, the birth-place of 
Mary Scott, daughter of Philip Scott, of Dry- 
hope, and famous by the traditional name of 
the Flower of Yarrow. She was married to 
Walter Scott of Harden, no less renowned for 
his depredations, than his bride for her beauty. 
Her romantic appellation was in later days, 
with equal justice, conferred on Miss Mary 
Lilias Scott, the last of the elder branch of the 
Harden family. The author well remembers 
the talent and spirit of the latter Flower of 
Yarrow, though age had then injured tlie 
charms which procured her the name. The 
words usually sung to the air of " Tweedside " 
beginning, " What beauties does Flora dis- 
close," were composed in her honor. 

Note 21. 

ifi feudal strife, a foe, 

Hath laid Oiir Lady's ckapel low. — P. 55. 
The chapel of St. Mary of tlie Lowes (de 
laciibus) was situated on the eastern side of the 
lake, to which it gives name. It was injured 
by the clan of Scott, in a feud with the Crans- 
touns ; but continued to be a jilace of worship 
during the seventeenth century. The vestiges 



of the building can now scarcely be traced ; but 
the burial-ground is still used as a cemetery. A 
funeral, in a spot so very retired, has an un- 
comnionlv striking effect. The vestiges of the 
chaplain's house are yet visible. Being in a 
High situation, it commanded a full view of the 
lake, with the opposite mountain of Bourhope, 
belonging, with the lake itself, to Lord Napier. 
On the left hand is the tower of Dryhope, 
mentioned in a preceding note. 

Note 22. 

The JI 'izard's grave ; 

That IVizard I'riest s, ivhose bones are thrust 
From company of holy dust. — P. 55. 

At one corner of the burial-ground of the 
demolished chapel, but without its precincts, 
is a small mound, called Binram''s Corse, 
where tradition deposits the remains of a 
necromantic priest, the former tenant of the 
chaplainry. 

Note 23. 
Some ruder and more savage scene. 
Like that -which frowns round dark Loch' 
skene.^P. 56. 

Loch-skene is a mountain lake, of consider- 
able size, at the head of the Moffat-water. 
The character of the scenery is uncommonly 
savage ; and the earn, or Scottish eagle, has, 
for many ages, built its nest yearly upon an 
islet in the lake. Loch-skene discharges itself 
into a brook, which, after a short and precipi- 
tate course, falls from a cataract of immense 
height, and gloomy grandeur, called from its 
appearance, the " Gray Mare's Tail." The 
" Giant's Grave," afterwards mentioned, is a 
sort of trench, which bears that name, a little 
way from the foot of the cataract. It has the 
ajjpearance of a battery, designed to command 
the pass. 

Note 24. 
St. Cidhbcrfs Holy Isle.—V. 56. 

Lindisfarne, an isle on the coast of North- 
umberland, was called Holy Island, from the 
sanctity of its ancient monastery, and from its 
having been the episcopal seat of the see of 
Durham during the early ages of British 
Christianity. A succession of holy men held 
that office : but their merits were swallowed 
up m the sujjerior fame of St. Cuthbert, who 
was sixth Bishop of Durham, and who be- 
stowed the name of his "patrimony" upon 
the extensive property of thij see. The ruins 
of the monastery upon Holy Island betoken 
great antiquity. The arches ara, m general, 
strictly Saxon, and the pillars which support 
them, short, strona, and massy. In some 
places, however, there are pointed windows., 
which indicate that the building has been re- 
jiaired at a period long subsequent to the 
original foundation. The exterior ornaments 
of the building, being of a light sandy stone, 
have been wasted, as described in the text. 





M. 



^ 



bo2 



HFPEAUJJi 



Lindisfame is not properly an island, but 
rather, as the venerable Bede has termed it, 
a semi-isle i for, although surrounded by the 
8ea at iull tide, the ebb leaves the sands dry 
between it and the opposite coast of Northum- 
berland, from which it is about three miles 
distant. 

Note 25, 

in their convent cell, 

A Saxon priticess o7ice did dwell. 
The lovely Edelfled.—'S . 58. 

She was the daughter of King Oswy, who, 
in gratitude to Heaven for the great victory 
which he won in 655, against Penda, the Pagan 
King of Mercia, dedicated Edelfleda, then but 
a year old, to the service of God, in the mon- 
astery of Whitby, of which St. Hilda was then 
abbess. She afterwards adorned the place of 
her education with great magnificence. 

Note 26. 

of thmtsand snakes, each o.te 

Was changed into a coil 0/ stones 

IVhen holv Hilda pray^ d ; 
They told, hoiv sea-fowls' pinio^is fail, 
A s over Whitby's towers they sail, — P 59. 

These two miracles are much insisted upon 
by all ancient writers who have occasion to 
mention either Whitby or St. Hilda. The relics 
of the snakes which infested the precincts of 
the convent, and were, at the abbess's prayer, 
noi only beheaded, but petrified, are still found 
about the rocks, and are termed by Protestani 
lossilists. A mmonitcB. 

The other miracle is thus mentioned by Cam- 
den : " It is also ascribed to tne power of her 
sanctity, that these wild geese, which, in the 
winter, fly in great flocks to the lakes and 
rivers unfrozen in the southern parts, to the 
great amazement oi every one, fall down sud- 
denly upon the ground, when they are in their 
flight over certain neighboring fields here- 
bouts ; a relation I should not have made, if I 
haa not received it from several credible men. 
But those who are less inclined to heed super- 
stition attribute it to some occult quality in the 
ground, and to somewhat of antipathy between 
it and the geese, such as they say is betwixt 
wolves and scy'la roots : For that such hidden 
tendencies and aversions, as we call sympathies 
and antipathies, are implanted in many things 
by provident Nature, for the preservation of 
them, is a thing so evident thct everybody 
grants it." Mr. Charlton, in his History of 
Whitby, points out the true origin of the fable, 
from the number of sea-gulls that, when flying 
from a storm, often alight near Whitby ; and 
from the woodcocks, and other birds of passage, 
who do the same upon their arrival on shore, 
after a long flight. 



Note 27. 
His body'^ resting-place, of old. 
How oft their Patron changed, they told. — 

P. 59. 

St. Cuthbert was, in th choice of his sepul- 
chre, one of the most mutable and unreasonable 
saints in the Calendar. He died a.d. 688, in 
a hermitage upon the Fame Islands, having 
resigned the bishopric of Lindisfarne, or Holy 
Island, about two years before. His body was 
brought to Lindisfarne, where it remained until 
a descent of the Danes, about 793, when the 
monastery was nearly destroyed. The monks 
fled to Scotland with what they deemed their 
chief treasure, the relics of St. Cuthbert The 
Saint was, however, a most capricious fellow- 
traveller , which was the more intolerable, as, 
like Smbad's Old Man of the Sea, he journeyed 
upon the shoulders of his companions. They 
paraded him through Scotland for several 
years, and came as far west as Whithern, m Gal- 
loway, whence they attempted to sail for Ire- 
land, but were driven back by tempests. He 
at length made a halt at Norham ■ from thence 
he went to Melrose, where he remained sta 
tionary for a sliort time, and then caused him- 
self to be launched upon the Tweed in ■^. stone 
coffin, which landed him at Tilinouth, in 
Northumberland. 

The resting-place of the remains of this 
Saint IS not now matter of uncertainty So re- 
cently as 17th May. 1827. '139 years after his 
death, their discovery and disintermen' were 
effected. Under a blue stone in the middle of 
the shrine of St Cuthbert, at the eastern ex- 
tremity of the choir ol Durham Cathedral, there 
was then found a walled grave, containing the 
coffins of the Saint The first, or outer one, 
was ascertained to be that of 1541, thesecondoi 
1041 ; the third, orinnerone, answerini inevery 
particular to the description of that of 698, was 
found to contam, not indeed, as had been 
averred then, and even until 1539. the incorrup- 
tible body but the entire skeleton of the Saint ; 
the bottom of the grave being perfectly dry, 
free from offensive smell, and without the 
slightest symptom that a luunan body had ever 
undergone decomposition within its walls. The 
skeleton was found swathed in five silk robes 
of emblematic embroidery the ornamental 
parts laid with gold leaf, and these again 
covered with a robe of linen Beside the skele 
ton were also deposited several gold and silvei 
insignia, and othei relics of the Saint. 

[Speaking of the burial of Cuthbert, Mr 
Hartshorne says, " Aldhune was at that time 
bishop ot the, previously for a long period, wan- 
dering See cf Lindisfarne. But wi; now hear 
no more of that ancient name ai the seat of 
Episcopacy A cathedral church, such as 11 
was * * * was speedily erected upon the 
hill ot Durham. This church was consecrated, 
Willi much magnificence and solemnity, m the 
year <)')()."' — History cf l^orthiiinberlend, p 

727.1 







MARMION. 



O03 



Note 28. 

Even Scotland's dauntless kin^ and heir, &'C., 
Sefore his sta7idard fled. — P. S'4- 

Every one has heard, that when David I., 
with his son Henry, invaded Northumberland 
in 1136, the Enghsh host inarched against them 
under the holy banner of St. Cuthbert ; to the 
efficacy of which was imputed the great victory 
which they obtained in the bloody battle of 
Northallerton, or Cutonmoor. The conquerors 
were at least as much indebted to the jealousy 
and intractability of the different tribes who 
composed David's army : among whom, as men- 
tioned in the text, were the Galwegians, the 
Britons of Strath-Clyde, the men of Teviotdale 
and Lothian, with many Norman and German 
warriors, who asserted the cause of the Empress 
Maud. See Chalmers' Caledonia, vol. 1. p. 
6-22 ; a most laborious, curious, and interesting 
publication, from which considerable defects of 
style and manner ought not to turn aside the 
Scottish antiquary. 

Note 29. 

' Twas he, to vindicate his reign, 
Edged A Ifred^s falchion on the Dane, 
A nd turtidilie Conqueror back again. — 

p.a9. 

Cuthbert, we have seen, had no great reason 
to spare the Danes, when opportunity offered. 
Accordingly, I find, in Simeon of Durham, that 
the Saint appeared in a vision to Alfred, when 
lurking in the marshes of Glastonbury, and 
promised him assistance and victory over his 
heathen enemies ; a consolation which, as was 
reasonable, Alfred, after the victory of Ashen» 
down, rewarded by a royal offering at the shrine 
of the Saint. As to William the Conqueror, 
the terror spread before his army, when he 
marched to punish the revolt of the Northum- 
brians m 1096, had forced the monks to fly once 
more to Holy Island with the body of the Saint. 
It l^as, however, replaced before William left 
the north , and, to balance accounts, tlie Con- 
queror having intimated an indiscreet curiosity 
to view the Saint's body, he was, while in the 
act of commanding the shnne to be opened, 
seized with heat and sickness, accompanied 
with such a panic terror, that, notwithstanding 
there was a sumptuous dinner prepared for him, 
he fled without eating a morsel, (which the 
monkish historian seems to have thought no 
small part both of the miracle and the penance,) 
and never drew his bridle till he got to the river 
Tees. 

Note 30. 

Saini Cuthbert sits, and toils to frame 
The sea-bor?i beads that bear his name. — 

P 59 

Although we do not learn that Cuthbert was, 
during his life, such an artificer as Dunstan, his 
brother in sanctity, yet, since his death, he has 



acquired the reputation of forging those E» 
irochi which are found among the rocki of 
Holy Island, and pass there by the name of St. 
Cuthbert's Beads. While at this task, he is 
supposed to sit during the night upon a certain 
rock, and use another as his anvil. This story 
was perhaps Credited in former days ; at least 
the Saint's legend contains some not more 
probable. 

Note 31. 
Old Colwulf.—'P. 59. 
Ceowulf, or Colwulf, King of Northumber 
land, flourished in the eighth century. He was 
a man of some learning ; for the venerable Bede 
dedicates to him his " Ecclesiastical History." 
He abdicated the throne about 73S, and retired 
to Holy Island, where he died in the odor of 
sanctity Saint as Colwulf was, however, I 
fear the foundation of the penance vault does 
not correspond with his character ; for it is re- 
corded among his memorabilia, that, finding 
the air of the island raw and cold, he indulged 
the monks, whose rule had hitherto confined 
them to milk or water, with the comfortable 
privilege of using wine or ale. If any rigid an- 
tiquary insists on this objection, he is welcome 
to suppose the penance-vault was intended, by 
the founder, for the more genial purposes of a 
cellar 

Note 32. 
TynemoutK s haughty Prioress. — P. 60. 
That there was an ancient priory at Tyne- 
mouth IS certain. Its rums are situated on a 
high rocky point ; and, doubtless, many a vow 
was made to the shrine by the distressed mari- 
ners who drove towards the iron-bound coast of 
Northumberland in stormy weather It was 
anciently a nunnery • for Virca, abbess of Tyne- 
moutli, presented St. Cuflibert (yet alive) with 
a rare winding-sheet, in emulation of a holy 
lady called Tuda, who had sent him a coffin 
But, as in the case of Whitby, and of Holy 
Island, the introduction of nuns at Tynemouth 
in the reign of Henry VIII is an anachronism. 
The nunnery at Holy Island is altogether fic- 
titious. Indeed, St. Cuthbert was unlikely to 
permit such an establishment ; for, notwith- 
standing his accepting the mortuary gifts above 
mentioned, and his carrying on a visiting ac- 
quaintance with the Abbess of Coldinghain, he 
certainly hated the whole female sex j and, in 
revenge of a slippery trick played to him by an 
Irish princess, he, after deaih, inflicted severe 
penances on such as presumed to approach 
within a certain distance of his shrine. 

Note 33. 

On those the -wall was to enclose. 

Alive within the iomb.— 'P. 61 . 

It is well known that the religious, who broke 

their vows of chastity, were subjected to the 

same penalty as the Roman vestals in a similar 







6o4 



APPENDIX. 



case. A small niche, sufficient to enclose their 
bodies, was made in the massive wall of the 
convent ; a slender pittance of food and water 
was deposited in it, and the awful words, Vade 
IN Pace, were the signal for immuring the 
criminal. It is not likely that, in later times, 
this punishment was often resorted to ; but 
among the ruins of the Abbey of Colduigham 
were some years ago discovered the remains of 
a female skeleton, which from the shape of the 
niche and position of the figure seemed to be 
that of an immured nun. 

Note 34. 
The village inn. — P. 65. 
The accommodations of a Scottish hostelrie, 
or inn, in the i6th century, may be collected 
from Dunbar's admirable tale of "The Friars 
of Berwick." Simon Lawder," thegay ostlier," 
seems to have lived very comfortably; and his 
wife decorated her person with a scarlet kirtle, 
and a belt of silk and silver, and rings upon her 
fingers ; and feasted her paramour with rabbits, 
capons, partridges, and Bordeaux wine. At 
least, if the Scottish mns were not good, it was 
not for want of encouragement from the legis- 
lature ; who, so early as the reign of James I., 
not only enacted that in all boroughs and fairs 
there be hostellaries, having stables and cham- 
bers, and provision^ lor man and horse, but by 
another statute ordained that no man, travelling 
on horse or fo u, should presume to lodge any- 
where except in these hostellaries ; and that no 
person, save innkeepers, should receive such 
travellers, under the penalty of forty shillings, 
for exercising such hospitality. But, in spite of 
these provident enactments, the Scottish hos- 
tels are but mdifferent, and strangers continue 
to find reception in the houses of individuals. 

Note 35. 
The death of a dear friend. — P. 67. 
Among other omens to which faithful credit 
IB given among the Scottish peasantry, is what 
is called the " dead-bell," explained by my 
friend James Hogg to be that tinkling in the 
ears which the country peo]ile regard as the 
secret intelligence ot some friend's decease. 

Note 36. 
The Goblin Hall- — P. 68. 
A vaulted hall under the ancient castle of 
Gifford or Yester (for it bears either name in- 
differently), the construction of which has from 
a very remote period been ascribed to magic. 
The statistical Account of the Parish of Garvald 
and Baro gives the following account of the 
present state of this castle and apartment : — 
" Upon a peninsula formed by the water of 
Hopes on the east, and a large rivulet on 
the west, stands the ancient castle of Yester. 
Sir David Dalrymple, in his Annals, relates, 
that ' Hugh Gifford de Yester died in 1267 ; 
that in his castle there was a capacious cavern, 



formed by magical art, and called 'n the country 
Bo-Hall, z. e. Hobgoblin Hall." A staircase 
of twenty-four steps led down to this apart- 
ment, which is a large and spacious hall, with 
an arched roof, and though it had stood for so 
many centuries, and been exposed to the exter- 
nal air for a period of fifty or sixty years, it is 
still as firm and entire as if it had only stood a 
few years. From the floor of this hall, another 
staircase of thirty-six steps leads down to a pit 
which hath a communication with Hopes water. 
A great part of the walls of this large and 
ancient castle are still standing. There is a tra- 
dition that the castle of Yester was the last 
tonification in this country, that surrendered 
to General Gray, sent into Scotland by Pro- 
tector Somerset." — Statistical Account, vol. 
xiii 1 have only to add, that, in 1737, the 
Goblin Hall was tenanted by the Marquis of 
I'weeddale's falconer, as I learn from a poem 
by Boyse, entitled '" Retirement," written upon 
visiting Yester. It is now rendered inaccessi- 
ble by the fall of the stair. 

Note 37 
There floated Haco's banner trim 
Above Norweyan warriors grim. — P. 68. 
In 1263, Haco, King of Norway, came into 
the Frith of Clyde with a powerful armament, 
and made a descent at Largs, in Ayrshire. 
Here he was encountered and defeated, on the 
2d October, by Alexander III Haco retreated 
to Orkney, where he died soon after this dis- 
grace to his arms. There are still existing, near 
the place of battle, many barrows, some of 
which, having been opened, were found, as 
usual, to contain bones and urns. 

Note 38. 
Upon his breast a pentacle. — P. 6q. 
''A pentacle is a piece of fine linen, folded 
with five corners, according to the five senses, 
and suitably inscribed with characters. This 
the magician extends towards the spirits which 
he invokes, when they are stubborn and rebel- 
lious, and refuse to be conformable unto the 
ceremonies and rites of magic." — See the Dis- 
courses, etc., in Reginald iQ0X.\^% Discovery of 
Witchcraft, ed. 1665, p. 66. 

Note 39. 
A s born upon that blessed night. 
When yawning graves and dying groan 
Proclaim' d HelPs empire overthrown. — 

P. 69. 
It is a popular article of faith that those who 
are born on Christmas, or Good Friday, have 
the power of seeing spirits, and even of com- 
manding them. I'he Spaniards imputed the 
haggard and downcast looks of their Philip II. 
to the disagreeable visions to which this privi- 
lege subjected him. 







MARMION. 



60 • 



Note /}o. 

Yet still the knightly sf>ear and shield 
The Elfin warrior doth ivield 
Upon the brown hill's breast.— "P. 70. 
The following extract from the Essay upon 
the Fairy superstitions, in the " Minstrelsy of 
the Scottish Border," vol. ii., will showwhence 
many of the particulars of the combat between 
Alexander HI. and the Goblin Knight are 
derived : — 

Gervase of Tilbury, Otia Imperial, ap. Script. 
rer. Brun:vic. (vo! i. p. 797). relates the follow- 
ing popular story concerning a fairy knight ; 
" Osbert, a bold and powerful baron, visited a 
noble family in the vicinitv of Wandelbury, in 
the bishopric of Ely. Among other stories 
related in the social circle of his friends, who, 
according to custom, amused each other by re- 
peating ancient tales and traditions, he was 
informed, that if any knight, unattended, en- 
tered an adjacent plain by moonlight, aid chal- 
lenged an adversary to appear, he would be im- 
mediately encountered by a spirit in the form 
of a knight. Osbert resolved to make the ex- 
perrnent, and set out, attended by a single 
squire, whom he ordered to remain without the 
limits of the plain, which wa.s surrounded by an 
ancient entrenchment. On repeating the chal- 
lenge, he was instantly assailed by an adver- 
sary, whom he quickly unhorsed, and seized the 
reins of his steed. During this operation, his 
ghostly opponent sprung up, and darting his 
spear, like a javelin, at Osbert, wounded him 
in the thigh. Osbert returned in triumph with 
the horse, which he committed to the care of 
his servants. The horse was of a sable color, 
as well as his whole accoutrements, and appa- 
rently of great beauty and vigor. He remained 
with his keeper till cock-crowing, when, with 
eyes flashing fire, he reared, spurned the ground, 
and vanished. On disarming himself, Osbert 
perceived that he was wounded, and that one 
of his steel boots was full of blood." Gervase 
adds, that " as long as he lived, the scar of his 
wound opened afresh on the anniversary of the 
eve on which he encountered the spirit." Less 
fortunate was the gallant Bohemian knight, 
who, travelling by night with a single com- 
panion, " came in sight of a fairy host, arrayed 
under displayed banners. Despising the re- 
monstrances of his friend, thj knight pricked 
forward to break a lance with a champion, who 
advanced from the ranks apparently in defiance. 
His companion beheld the Bohemian over- 
thrown, horse and man, by his aerial adyer 
sary ; and returning to the spot next morning, 
he found the mangled corpses ot the knight 
and steed." —Hierarchy of Blessed A ngels, 
p. 554. 

n.::sides these instances of Elfin chivalry 
above quoted, many others might be alleged in 
support of employing fairy machinery in this 
manner. The forest of Glenmore, in the North 
Highlands, is believed to be haunted bv a .spint 



called Lham-dearg, in the array of an ancient 
warrior, having a bloody hand, from which he 
takes his name. He insists upon those with 
whom he meets doing battle with him ; and the 
clergyman who makes up an account of the dis- 
trict, extant in the Macfarlane MS. in the Ad- 
vocates' Lilarary, gravely assures us, that, in his 
time, Lham-dearg fought with three brothers, 
whom he met in his walk, none of whom long 
survived the ghostly conflict. Barclay, in his 
" Euphormion," gives a singular account of an 
officer who had ventured, with his servant, 
rather to intrude upon a haunted house in a 
town in Flanders, than to put up with worse 
quarters elsewliere. After taking the usual 
precautions of providing fires, lights, and arms, 
they watched till midnight, when behold ! the 
severed arm of a man dropped from the ceiling) 
this was followed by the legs, the other arm, 
the trunk, and the head of the body, all sepa- 
rately. The members rolled together, united 
themselves in ihe presence of the astonished 
soldiers, and formed a gigantic warrior, who 
defied them both to combat. The blows, al- 
though they penetrated the body and ampu- 
tated the limbs of their strange antagonist, had, 
as the reader may easily believe, little effect on 
an enemy who possesseH such powers of self- 
union ; nor did his efforts make more effectual 
impression upon them. How the combat ter- 
minated I do not exactly remember, and have 
not the book by me ; but I think the spirit made 
to the intruders on his mansion the usual pro- 
posal that they should renounce their redemp- 
tion ; which being declined, he was obliged to 
retract. 

The northern champions of old were accus- 
tomed peculiarly to search for. and delight in, 
encounters with such military spectres. See a 
whole chapter on the subject, in Bartho- 
Litius, De Cattsis coniemptie Mortis a Danis, 
p. 253. 

Note 41. 

Close to the hut, no more his own. 
Close to the aid he sought in vain. 
The morn may fitid the stiffened swain.— 
P. 72. 

I cannot help here mentioning, that, on the 
night in which these lines were written, sug- 
gested, as they were, by a sudden fall of snow, 
beginning after sunset, an unfortunate man 
perished exactly in the manner here described, 
and his bodv was next morning found close to 
his own house. The accident fiappened within 
five miles of the farm of Ashestiel. 

Note 42. 

Forbes.— v. 72. 

Sir William Forbes of Pitsligo, Baronet ; uiv 

aqualled, perhaps, in the degree of individua', 

' affection entertained for him by his friends, as 

well as in the general respect and esteem of 

I Scotland at large. His " Life of Beattie," 

I v/hcn he befriended and patronized in life, as 




iC: 



V 




606 



APPENDIX. 



well as celebrated after his decease, was not 
long published before the benevolent and affec- 
tionate biographer was called to follow the sub- 
ject of his narrative. This melancholy event 
very shortly succeeded the marriage of the 
friend, to whom this introduction is addressed, 
with one of Sir William's daughters. 

Note 43. 
Fruir Rush.—V. 74. 

Alias ''Will o' the Wisp." This personage 
js a strolling demon, or esprit follet, who, once 
upon a time, got admittance into a monastery 
as a scullion, and played the monks many 
pranks. He was also a sort of Robin Good- 
tellow and Jack o' Lanthom. It is in allusion 
to this mischievous demon that Milton's clown 
speaks, — 

" She was pinch'd, and pull'd, she said. 
And he by Friar's lanthom led." 

" The history of Friar Rush " is of extreme 
rarity, and for some time, even the existence 
of such a book was doubted, although it is ex- 
pressly alluded to by Reginald Scott, in his 
" Discovery of Witchcraft." I have perused a 
copy in the valuable library of my friend, Mr. 
Heber ; and I observe from Mr. Beloe's 
" Anecdotes of Literature," that there is one 
in the excellent collection of the Marquis of 
Stafford. 

Note 44. 
Sir David L indesay of the Mount., 
Lord Lion King-at-arms. — P. 75. 
The late elaborate edition of Sir David 
Lindesay's Works, by Mr. George Chalmers, 
has probably introduced him to manv of my 
readers. It is perhaps to be regretted that the 
learned Editor had not bestowed more pains in 
elucidating his author, even although he should 
have omitted, or at least reserved, his disquisi- 
tions on the origin of the language used by the 
poet. But, with all its faults, his work is an 
acceptable present to Scottish antiquaries. Sir 
David Lindesay was well known for his early 
efforts in favor of the Reformed doctrines ; 
and, indeed, his play, coarse as it now seems, 
must have had a powerful effect upon the people 
of his age. I am uncertain if I abuse poetical 
license by introducing Sir David Lindesay in 
the character of Lion-Herald, sixteen years 
before he obtained that office. At any rate, I 
am not the first who has been guilty of the 
anachronism; tor the author of "Flodden Field" 
despatches Dallamomit, which can mean no- 
body but Sir David Ot. la Mont, to France, on 
the message of defiance from James IV. to 
Henry VIII. It was often an office imposed 
on the Lion King-at-anns to receive foreign 
Ambassadors; and Lindesay himself did this 
honor to Sir Ralph Sadler in 1530-40. In- 
deed, the oath of the Lion, in its first article, 
bears reference to his frequent employment 
upon royal messages and embassies. 



The office of heralds in feudal times being 
held of the utmost importance, the inauguration 
of the Kings-at arms, who pre.sided over iheii 
colleges, was proportionally solemn. In fact, 
it was the mimicry of a royal coronation, except 
that the unction was made with wine instead of 
oil. In Scotland, a namesake and kinsman of 
Sir David Lindesay, inaugurated in 1592, "was 
crowned by King James with the ancient crown 
of Scotland, which was used before the Scottish 
kings assumed a close crown ;" and on occasion 
of the same solemnity, dined at the King's table 
wearing the crown. It is probable that the 
ciironation of his predecessor was not less 
solemn. So sacred was the herald's office, that 
in 1515, Lord Drummond was by Parliament 
declared guilty of treason, and his lar.ds for- 
feited, because he had struck with his fist the 
Lion King at-arms when he reprcjved him for 
his follies. Nor was he restored, but at the 
Lion's earnest solicitation. 

Note 45. 
Crichtottn Castle. — P. 75. 
A large ruinous castle on the banks of the 
Tyne, about ten miles from Edinburgh. As 
indicated in the text, it was built at different 
times, and with a very differing regard to 
splendor and accommodation. The oldest 
part of the building is a narrow keep, or tower, 
such as formed the mansion of a lesser Scottish 
baron; but so many additions have been made 
to it, that there is now a large court-yard, sur- 
rounded by buildings of different ages. The 
eastern fiont of the court is raised above a 
portico, and decorated with entablatures, bear- 
ing anchors. All the stones of this front are 
cut into diamond facets, the angular projections 
of which have an uncommonly rich appearance. 
The inside of this part of the building appears 
to have contained a gallery of great length and 
uncommon elegance. Access was given to it by 
a magnificent stair-case, now quite destroyed. 
The soffits are ornamented with twining cordage 
and rosettes ; and the whole seems to have been 
far more splendid than was usual in Scottish 
castles. The castle belonged originally to the 
Cliancellor, Sir William Crichton, and probably 
owed to him its first enlargement, as well as its 
being taken by the Earl of Douglas, who im- 
puted to Crichton's counsels the death of his 
predecessor. Earl William, beheaded in Edin- 
burgh Castle, with his brother, in 1440. It is 
said to have been totally demolished on that 
occasion ; but the present state of the ruin 
shows the contrary. In 1483 it was garrisoned 
by Lord Crichton, then its proprietor, against 
King James III., whose displeasure he had 
incurred by seducing his sister Margaret, in re- 
venge, it is said, for the Monarch having dis- 
honored his bed. From the Crichton tamily 
the castle passed to that of the Hepburns, Earls 
of Bothwell; and when the forfeitures of Stew- 
art, the last Earl of Bothw.ell, were divided, the 
barony and Castle of Crichton fell to the share 



^" 





MAPMION. 



of the Earl of Buccleuch. They were after- 
wards the property of the Pringles of UiJton, 
and are now that of Sir John Callander, Baronet. 
It were to be wished the proprietor would take 
a little pains to preserve these splendid remains 
of antiquity, which are at present used as a told 
for sheep, and wintering cattle ; although, per- 
haps, there are very few ruins in Scotland which 
display so well the style and beauty of ancient 
castle-architecture. The castle of Crichton has 
a dungeon vault, called the Massey Mole. 1 he 
"pithet, which is not uncommonly applied to the 
prisons of othei old castles in Scotland, is ot 
Saracenic origin. It occurs twice m the Epis- 
tohpltinerariie"' of Tollins, '• Career suMcr-^ 
raneus,sive,ut Mauri appellant, MAZMORR.^, . 
p 147 ; and again, '■' Coe;untur omnes taptivi 
sub noctem in ergastuln subterranean qum 
Turcie A lireze^ani vacant Mazmorras, p. 
a^V The same word applies to the dungeons 
of the ancient Moorish castles in Spain, and 
serves to show from what nation the Ootluc 
Style of castle-building was originally derived. 

Note 46. 
Earl A datn Hepburn.— V. 76. 
He was the second Earl of Bothwell, and fell 
in the field of Flodden, where, according to an 
ancient Enelish poet, he distinguished himself 
by a furious attempt to retrieve the day ;— 
" Then on the Scottish part, right proud, 
The Earl of Bothwell then out brast, 
And stepping forth, with stomach good. 

Into the enemies throng he thrast ; 
AM Bothwell ! Both-well! cried bold. 

To cause his souldiers to ensue. 
But there he caught a wellcome cold. 

The Englishmen straight down him threw. 
Thus Haburn through his liardy heart 
His fatal fine in conflict found, &c. 

Flodden Field, a Poem ; edited by 
H. Weber. Edin. 1808. 

Adam was grandfather to James, Earl of 
Bothwell, too well known in the history ot 
Queen Mary. 

Note 47. 

For that a messenger from Heaven, 

In vain to yatnes had counsel given, 

Against the English ■zvur.—V. 76. 

This story is told by Pitscottie with charac- 

eristic simplicity:— ''The King, seeing that 

France could get no support of him for that 

time, made a proclamation, full hastily, through 

all the realm of Scotland, both east and west, 

south and north, as well in the isles as in the 

firm land, to all manner of men, between sixty 

and seventy years, that they should be ready, 

within twenty days, to pass with him, with 

forty davs' victual, and to meet at the Burrow- 

muir of'Edinburgh, and there to pass forward 

where he pleased. His proclamations were 

hastily obeyed, contrary the Council of Scot- 




land's will ; but every man loved his prince sc 
well that they would on no ways disobey him . 
but every man caused make his proclamatiot 
so hastily, conform to the charge of the King £ 
proclamation. 

" The King came to Llthgow, where he hap- 
pened to be for the time at the Council, verj' 
sad and dolorous, making his devotion to God, 
to send him good chance and fortune in his 
voyage. In this meantime there came a man, 
clad 'in a blue gown, in at the kirk door, and 
belted about him in a roll of linen cloth : a pair 
ot brotiking'j on his feet, to the great of his legs; 
with all other hose andclothes conform thereto ', 
but he had nothing on his head, but syde red 
yellow hair behind, and on his haffets, which 
wan down to his shoulders ; but his forehead 
was bald and bare. He seemed to be a mail ot 
two-and-fifty ye.ws, with a great pike-staft in 
his hand, and came first forward among the 
lords, crying and speiring for the King, saying, 
he desired to speak with him. While at the 
last, he came where the priest was sitting in the 
desk at his prayers ; but when he saw the King, 
he made him little reverence or salutation, but 
leaned dov.-n groffling on the desk before h;m, 
and said to him in this manner, as after follows : 
— ' Sir King, my mother hath sent me to you, 
1 desiring you not to pass, at this time, where 
thou art purposed; for if thou does, thou wilt 
not fare well in thy journey, nor none that 
passeth with thee. Further, she bade thee mell 
with no woman, nor use their counsel, nor let 
them touch thy body, nor thou theirs; for, if 
thou do it, thoii wilt be confounded and brought 
to shame. ' • , v, 

" By this man had spoken thir words unto the 
King's grace, the evening song was near done, 
and the King paused on thir words, studying to 
give him an answer: but, in the meantime, be- 
fore the King's eyes, and in the presence of all 
the lords that were about him for the time, this 
man vanished away, and could no ways be seen 
or comprehended, but vanished away as he had 
been a blink of the sun, or a whip of .he whirl- 
wind, and could no more be seen. I heard say, 
Sir David LIndesay Lyon-herauld, and John 
Inglis the marshal, who were, at that time, 
young men, and special servants to the King s 
grace, were standing presently beside the King, 
who thought to have laid hands on this man, 
that they might have speired further tidings at 
him: But all for nought; they could not touch 
him; for he vanished away betwi.xt them, and 
was no more seen." 



Note 48. 
The wild buckbells.—V . 76. 
I am glad of an opportunity to describe the 
cry of the deer by another word than braying, 
although the latter has been sanctified by the 
use of the Scottish metrical translation ot the 
Psalms. Bell seems to be an abbreviation o( 
bellow. This sylvan sonnd conveyed great 
I delight to our ancestors, chiefly, I suppose, 






■' 6o8 



APPENDIX. 




from association. A gentle knight in the reign 
of Henry VIII., Sir Thomas Wortley, built 
Wantley Lodge, in Wancliffe Forest, for the 
pleasure (as an a.icient inscription testifies) of 
'listening to the hart's bell." 

Note 49. 

"June saw his father'' s overthrow. — P. 76. 

The rebellion against James III. was signal- 
ized by the cruel circumstance of his son's pres- 
ence in the hostile army. When the King saw 
his own banner displayed against him, and his 
son in the faction of his enemies, he lost the 
little courage he had ever possessed, fled out of 
the field, fell from his horse as it started at a 
woman and water-pitcher, and was slain, it is 
not well understood by whom. James IV., after 
the battle, passed to Stirling, and hearing the 
monks of the chapel-royal deploring the death 
of his father, their founder, he was seized with 
deep remorse, which manifested itself in severe 
penances. (See a following Note on stanza ix. 
of canto V.) The battle of Sauchie-burn, in 
which James III. fell, was fought ibth June, 
■ 4S8. 

Note 50. 
The Borough-moor. — P. 78. 

The Borough, or Common Moor of Edin- 
burgh, was of very great extent, reaching from 
the southern walls of the city to the bottom of 
Braid Hills. It was anciently a forest ; and, in 
that state, was so great a nuisance, that the in- 
habitantc. of Edinburgh had permission granted 
to them of building wooden galleries, projecting 
over the street, in order to encourage them to 
consume the timber, which they seem to have 
done very effectually. When James IV. mus- 
tered the array of the kingdom there, in 15 13, 
the Borough-moor was, according to Hawthorn- 
den, *a field spacious, and delightful by the 
shade of many stately and aged oaks." Upon 
that, and similar occasions, the royal standard 
is traditionally said to ha\e been displayed from 
the Hare-Stane, a high stone, now built into the 
wall, on the left hand of the high-way leading 
towards Braid, not far from the head of Burnts- 
field Links. The Hare-Stane probably derives 
its name from the British word Har, signifying 
an army. 

Note 51. 

in ^oud Scotland's royal shield. 

The ruddy lion ratiifi'd in gold. — P. 79. 

The well-known arms of Scotland. If you 
will believe Boethius and Buchanan, the double 
treasure round the shield, mentioned, counter 
fleiir-de-lysed or lingued and armed azure, 
was first assumed by Echaius, King of Scotland, 
contemporary of Charlemagne, and founder of 
the celebrated League with France ; but later 
antiquaries make poor Eochy. or Achy, little 
better than a sort of King of Brentford, whom 
old Grig (who has also swelled into Gregorius 
Magnus) associated with himself in the im- 



portant duty of governing some part of the 
north-eastern coast of Scotland. 

Note 52. 

Caledonia'' s Queen is chajigcd. — P. 8i. 

The Old Town of Edinburgh wis secured on 
the north side by a lake, now drained, and on 
the south by a wall, which there was some 
attempt to make defensible even so late as 
1745. The gates, and the greater part of the 
wall, have been pulled down, in the course of 
the late extensive and beautiful enlargement of 
the city. My ingenious and valued friend, Mr. 
Thomas Campbell, proposed to celebrate Edin- 
burgh under the epithet here borrowed. But 
the "Queen of the North" has not been so 
fortunate as to receive from so eminent a pen 
the proposed distinction. 

Note 53. 

The cloth-yard arrows. — P. 82. 
This is no poetical exaggeration. In some 
of the counties of England, distinguished for 
archery, shafts of this extraordinary length were 
actually used. Thus at the battle of Black- 
heath, between the troops of Henry VII., and 
the Cornish insurgents, in 1496, the bridge of 
Dartford was defended by a picked band of 
archers fiim the rebel army, "whose arrows," 
says Holinshed, "were in length a full cloth 
yard." The Scottish, according to Ascham, had 
a proverb, that every English archer carried 
under his belt twenty-four Scots, in allusion to 
his bundle of unerring shafts. 

Note 54. 
He saw the hardy burghers there 
March artii' d on/oot with/aces bare. 

—P. 82 
The Scottish burgesses were, like yeomen, 
appointed to be armed with bows and sheaves, 
sword, buckler, knife, spear, or a good axe in- 
stead of a bow, if worth 100/. : their armor to 
be of white or bright harness. They wore white 
hats, i. e., bright steel caps, without crest or 
visor By an act of James IV. their weapon- 
schaivingss.re appointed to be held four times a 
year, under the aldermen or bailiffs. 

Note 55. 

On foot the yeomen too 

Each at his hack {a slender store) 

His forty days' provision bore. 

His arms were halbert, axe, or spear. 

—P. 83. 
Bows and quivers were in vain recommended 
to the peasantry of Scotland, by repeated 
statutes ; spears and axes seem universally to 
have been used instead of them. Their defen- 
sive armor was the plate-jack, hauberk, or 
brigantine ; and their missile weapons cross- 
bows and culverins. All wore swords of excel- 
lent temper, according to Patten ; and a volum- 







MAKMION. 



609 



inous handkerchief round their neck, ' not for 
ciild, but for cutting." The mace also was 
much used in the Scottish army. The old poem 
on the battle of Flodden mentions a band— 

" Who manfully did meet their foes, 
With leaden mauls, and lances long." 

Wlien the feudal array of the kingdom was 
called forth, each man was obliged to appear 
with forty day^' provision. When this was ex- 
pended, which took place before the battle of 
Flodden, the army melted away of cours.-. 
Almost all the Scottish forces, except a few 
knights, men-at-arms, and the Border-prickers, 
who formed excellent light cavalry, acted upon 
foot. 

Note 56. 
A banguei rich, aii/f "osily ivines. 
To Marinion mid nm train. — P. 84. 

In all transactions of arreat or petty import- 
ance, and among whomsoever taking place, it 
would seem that a present of wine was a uni- 
form and indispensable preliminary. It was 
not to Sir John Falstaff alone that such an in- 
troductory preface was necessary, however well 
judged and acceptable on the part of Mr. Brook; 
for .Sir Ralph Sadler, while on an embassy to 
Scotland m 1539-40, mentions, with compla- 
cency, " the same night came Rothesay (the 
herald so called) to me again, and brought me 
wine from the King, both white and red," — 
Clifford^ Edition, p. 39. 

Note 57. 

his iro7i-belt. 

That bound his breast in penance pain, 
In memory of his father slain. — P. 84. 
Few readers need to be reminded of this belt, 
to the weight of which James added certain 
ounces every year that he lived. Pitscottie 
founds his belief, that James was not slain in 
the battle of Flodden, because the English never 
had this token of the iron-belt to show to any 
Scottishman. The person and character of 
James are delineated according to our best his- 
torians. His romantic disposition, which led 
hini highly to relish gayety, approaching to 
license, was, at the same time, tinged with en- 
thusiastic devotion. These propensities some- 
times formed a strange contrast. He was wont, 
during his fits of devotion, to assume the dress, 
and conform to the rules, of the order of Fran- 
ciscans ; and when he had thus done penance 
for some time 111 Stirling, to plunge again inlo 
the tide of pleasure. Probably, too, with no 
unusual inconsistency, he sometimeslaughed at 
the superstitious observances to which he at 
other times subiected himself. 

NoTfl 58. 

Sir Hugh the Heroti's wife. — P. 85. 

It has been already noticed (see note to 
stanza xiu. of canto i.) that King James's ac- 



quaintance with Lady Heron of Ford did not 
commence until he marched into England. Our 
historians impute to the King's infatuated pas- 
sion the delays which led to the fatal defeat of 
Flodden. The author of "The Genealogy of 
the Heron Family" endeavors, with laudable 
anxiety, to clear the Lady Ford from the 
scandal ; that she came and went, however, 
between the armies of James and Surrey is 
certain. See Pinkerton's History and the 
authorities he refers to, vol. ii. p. 99. 

Note 59. 

The fair Qiieen of France 
Sent hint a titrqiiois ring and glove. 
And charged him, as her knight and love. 

For her to break a lance. — P. 85. 

" Also the Queen of France wrote a love- 
letter to the King of Scotland, calling him her 
love, showing him that she had suffered much 
rebuke in France for the defending of his 
honor. She believed surely that he would 
recompense her again with some of his kingly 
support in her necessity ; that is to say, that he 
would raise her an army, and come three foot 
of ground on English ground, for her sake. To 
that effect she sent hiii. a ring off her finger, 
with fourteen thousand French crowns to pay 
his expenses." Pitscottie, p. no. — A tur- 
quois ring ; probably this fatal gift is, with 
James's sword and dagger, preserved ir. the 
College of Heralds, London. 

Note 60. 
A rchibnld Bell-t he-Cat. —V. 86. 
Archibald Douglas, Earl of Angus, a man 
remarkable for strength of body and mind, 
acquired the popular name of Bell-the-Cat, 
upon the following remarkable occasion : — 
James the Third, of whom Pitscottie complains 
that he delighteH more in music, and " policies 
of building," than in hunting, hawking, and 
other noble exercises, was so ill advised as to 
make favorites of his architects and musicians, 
whom the same historian irreverently terms 
masons and fiddlers. His nobility, who did not 
sympathize in the King's respect for the fine 
arts, were extremely incensed at the honor? 
conferred (iU those persons, particularly or. 
Cochrane, a mason, who had been created Earl 
of Mar ; and, seizing the opportunity, when, 111 
14S2, the King had convoked the whole arra" 
of the country to march against the English, 
they held a midnight council in the church of 
Lauder, for the purpose of forcibly removing 
these minions from the King's person. When 
all had agreed on the propriety of this measure, 
Lord Gray told the assembly the apologue of 
the Mice, who had formed a resolution that it 
would be highly advantageous to their com- 
munity to tie a bell round the cat's neck, that 
they might hear her approach at a distance ; but 
which public measure unfortunately miscarried, 
from no mouse being willing to undertake the 




2—1 — 






6io 



APPENDIX. 



task of fastening the bell. " I understand the 
moral," said Angus, "and, that what we pro- 
pose may not lack execution, I will bell-the-cai." 

Note 6i. 
Against the ivar had A ngus stood, 
A nd chafed his royal Lord. — P. 86. 

Angus was an old man when the war against 
England was resolved upon. He earnestly 
spoke against that measure from its com- 
mencement ; and, on the eve of the battle of 
Flodden, remonstrated so freely upon the im- 
policy of fighting, that the King said to him, 
with scorn and indignation, " if he was afraid 
he might go home." The Earl burst into tears 
at this insupportable insult, and retired ac- 
cordingly, leaving his sons George, Master of 
Angus, and Sir William of Glenbervie, to com- 
mand his followers. They were both slain in 
the battle, with two hundred gentlemen of the 
name of Douglas. The aged earl, broken- 
hearted at the calamities of his house and his 
country, retired into a religious house, where he 
died about a year after the field of Flodden. 

Note 62. 
Taiitallon hold. — P. 87. 

The ruins of Tantallon Castle occupy a high 
ro"ck projecting into the German Ocean, about 
two miles east of North Berwick. The build- 
ing formed a principal castle of the Douglas 
family, and when the Earl of Angus was 
banished, in 1527, it continued to hold out 
against James V. The King went in person 
against it, and for its reduction, borrov/ed from 
the Castle of Dunbar, then belonging to the 
Duke of Albany, two great cannons, "Thrawn- { 
mouth'd Meg and her Marrow;' also, "two 
great botcards, and two moyan, two double 
falcons, and four quarter falcons." Yet, not- 
withstanding all this apparatus, James was 
forced to raise the siege, and only afterwards 
obtained possession of Tantallon by treaty with 
the governor, Simon Panango. When the 
Earl of Angus returned from banishment, upon 
the death of James, he again obtained posses- 
sion of Tantallon, and it actually afforded ref- 
uge to an English ambassador, under circum- 
stances similar to those described in the text. 
This was no other than the celebrated Sir 
Ralph Sadler, who resided there for some time 
under Angus's protection, after the failure of 
his negotiations for matching the miant Mary 
with Edward Vf. 

Note 63. 
Their tnotto on his blade. — P. 87. 
A very ancient sword, in possession of Lord 
Douglas, bears, among a great deal of flourish- 
ing, two hands pointing to a heart, which is 
placed betwixt them, and the date 1329, being 
the year in which Kruce charged the good 
Lord Douglas to carry his heart to the Holy 
Laud. 



Note 64. 

iMartin Smart. -V. 88. 

A German general, who commanded the 
auxiliaries sent by tne Duchess of Burgundy 
with Lambert Simnel. He was defeated and 
killed at Stokefield. The name of this German 
general is preserved by that of the field of 
battle, which is call''d, after him, Swartnioor. — 
There were songs about him long current 
in England. — See Dissertation prefixed to 
Ritson's Ancient Songs, 1792, p. Ixi. 

Note 65. 

The Cross. — P. 89. 

The Cross of Edinburgh was an ancient and 
curious structure. The lower part was an 
octagonal tower, sixteen feet in diameter, and 
about fifteen feet high. At each angle there 
was a pillar, and between them an arch, of the 
Grecian shape. Above these was a projecting 
battlement, with a turret at each corner, and 
medallions, of rude but curious workmanship, 
between them. Above this rose the proper 
Cross, a column of one stone, upwards of twenty 
feet high, surmounted with a unicorn. This 
pillar is preserved in the grounds of the property 
of Drum, near Edinburgh. 

Note 66. 
This awftd summons came. — P. 89. 
This supernatural citation is mentioned by 
all our Scottish historians. It was, probably, 
like the apparition at Linlithgow, an attempt, 
by those averse to the war, to impose upon the 
superstitious tetn|)er of James IV. 

Note 67. 

One 0/ his own ancestry. 

Drove the Monks forth of Coventry. — P. gr. 

This relates to the catastrophe of a real 
Robert de Marmion, in the reign of King 
Stephen, whom William of Newbury describes 
with some attributes of my fictitious hero ; 
'^Homobellicosns^ferocia, et astucia.fere nulla 
sno tein/>ore impar.^'' This Baron, having ex- 
pelled the Monks from the church of Coventry, 
was not long of experiencing the Divine judg- 
ment, as the same monks, no doubt, termed his 
disaster. Having waged a feudal war with the 
Earl of Chester, Marmion's horse fell, as he 
charg&d in the van of his troop, against a body 
of the Earl's followers ; the rider's thigh being 
broken by the fall, his head was cut off by a 
common fnot-soldier, ere he could receive any 
succor. The whole story is told by William 
of Newbury. 

Note 6S. 

The savage Dane 

At lol more deep the mead did drain. — P. 92. 

The lol of the heathen Danes (a word still 

applied to Christmas m .Scotland) was solem- 






MARMION. 



611 



nized with great festivity. The humor of 
the Danes at table displayed itself in pelting 
each other with bones ; and Torfjeus tells a 
long and curious story, in the History of 
Hrolfe Kraka, of one Hottus, an inmate of the 
Court of Denmark, who was so generally as- 
sailed with these missiles, that he constructed, 
out of the bones with which he was over- 
whelmed, a very respectable intrenchment, 
against those who continued the raillery. 

Note 6q. 
Who lists may in their fnutntning see 
Traces of ancient mystery. — P. 93. 
It seems certain, that the j\Iummers of 
England, who (in Northumberland at least) 
used to go about in disguise to the neighbor- 
ing houses, bearing the then useless plough- 
share ; and the Guisards of Scotland, not yet 
in total disuse, present, in some indistinct 
degree, a shadow of the old mysteries, which 
were the origin of the English drama. In 
Scotland {tne ipso teste), we were wont, during 
my boyhood, to take the characters of the 
apostles, at least of Peter, Paul, and Judas 
Iscariot ; the first had the keys, the second 
carried a sword, and the last the bag, in which 
the dole of our neighbors' plum-cake was de- 
posited. One played a champion, and recited 
some traditional rhymes ; another was 

" Alexander, King of Macedon, 
Who conquer'd all the world but Scotland 
alone." 

These, and many such verses, were repeated, 
but by rote, and unconnectedly. There was 
also, occasionally, I believe, a Saint George. 
In all, there was a confused resemblance of the 
ancient mysteries, in which the characters of 
Scripture, the Nine Worthies, and other popu- 
lar personages, were usually exhibited. 

Note 70. 

The Highlander 

Will, on a Friday morn, look fiale, 
If ask'' d to tell a fairy tale. — P. 94. 

The Daoine shi', or 3Ten of Peace, of the 
Scottish Highlanders, rather resemble the Scan- 
dinavian Diiergar than the English Fairies. 
Notwithstanding their name, they are, if not 
absolutely malevo'ent, at least peevish, dis- 
contented, and apt to do mischief on slight 
provocation. The belief of tlieir existence is 
deeply impressed on the Highlanders, who 
think they are particularly offended at mortals 
who talk to them, who wear their favorite 
color (green), or m any respect interfere with 
their affairs. This is especially to be avoided 
on Friday, when, whether as dedicated to 
Venus, with whom, in Germany, this subter- 
raneous people are held nearly connected, or 
for a more solemn reason, they are more 
active, and possessed of greater power. Some 
curious particulars concenung the popular su- 




perstition of the Highlanders may be found in 
Dr. Graham's Picturesque Sketches of Perth' 
shire. 

Note 71. 

The last lord 0/ FrancMntont. — P. 94. 

The jourual of the friend to whom the 
Fourth Canto of the Poem is inscribed, fur- 
nished me with the following account of a 
striking superstition. 

" Passed the pretty little village of Franchd- 
mpnt (near Spaw), with the romantic ruins of 
the old castle of the Counts of that name. The 
road leads though many delightful vales on a 
rising ground ; at the extremity of one of them 
stands the ancient castle, now the subject of 
rnany superstitious legends. It is firmly be- 
lieved by the neighboring peasantry, that the 
last Baron of Franchemont deposited, in one of 
the vaults of the castle, a ponderous chest, 
containing an immense treasure in gold and 
silver, which, by some magic spell, was in- 
trusted to the care of the Devil, who is con- 
stantly found sitting on the chest in the shape 
of a huntsman. Any one adventurous enough 
to touch the chest is instantly seized with the 
palsy. Upon one occasion, a priest of noted 
piety was brought to the vault : he used all the 
arts of exorcism to persuade his infernal majesty 
to vacate his seat, but in vain ; the huntsman 
remained immovable. At last, moved by the 
earnestness of the priest, he told him that he 
would agree to resign the chest, if the exerciser 
would sign his name with blood. But the 
priest understood his meaning, and refused, as 
by that act he would have delivered over his 
soul to the Devil. Yet if anybody can dis- 
cover the mystic words used by the person who 
deposited the treasure, and pronounce them, 
the fiend must instantly decamp. I had many 
stories of a similar nature from a peasant, who 
had himself seen the Devil in the shape 
great cat." 

Note 72. 

the h7ige and sweeping brand 

Which wont of yore, z'« battle fray, 
Hisffeinan^s limbs to shred away. 
As wood-knife lops the sapling spray, 

—P. 98. 
The Earl of Angus had strength and per- 
sonal activity corresponding to his courage. 
Spens of Kilspindie, a favorite of James IV., 
having spoken of him lightly, the Earl met 
him while hawking, and, compelling him to 
single combat, at one blow cut asunder his 
thigh-bone, and killed him on the spot. But 
ere he could obtain James's pardon for this 
slaughter, Angus was obliged to yield his 
castle of Hermitage, in exchange for that of 
Bothwell, which was some diminution to the 
family greatness. The sword with which he 
struck so remarkable a blow, was presented 
by his descendant James, Earl of Morton, 





6l2 



APPEN-DIX. 



afterwards Regent of Scotland, to Lord Lin- 
desay of the Byres, when he defied Both- 
well to single combat on Carberry Hill. See 
Introduction to the Minstrelsy of the Scottish 
Border, 

Note 73. 

A lid hopest thou hence unscathed to go ? — 
i\'o '. by St. Bride of Both^vell, no ! 
Up drawbridge %grooms ! — PVhai, Warder, 
ho I 
Let the portcullis Jail. — P. 99. 

This ebullition of violence in the potent Earl 
of Angus is not without its example in the real 
history of the house of Douglas, whose ch.ef- 
tains possessed the ferocity with the heroic 
virtues of a savage state. The most curious 
instance occurred in the case of Maclellan, 
Tutor of Bombay, who, having refused to 
acknowledge the pre-eminence claimed by 
Douglas over the gentlemen and Barons of 
Galloway, was seized and imprisoned by th*- 1 
Earl, in his castle of the Thrieve, on the 
borders of Kirkcudbrightshire. Sir Patrick ' 
Gray, commander of King James the Second's I 
guard, was uncle to the Tutor of Bombay, and I 
obtained from the King a " sweet letter of sup- 
plication," praying the Earl to deliver his 1 
"prisoner into Gray's hand. When Sir Patrick 
arrived at the castle, he was received with all j 
Ae honor due to a favorite servant of the 1 
King's household , but while he was at dinner, 
che Earl, who suspected his errand, caused his ; 
prisoner to be led forth and beheaded. After ' 
dinner. Sir Patrick presented the King's letter 
to the Earl, who received it with great affecta- 
tion of reverence ; " and took him by the hand, j 
and led him forth to the green, 'where the I 
gentleman was lying dead, and showed him j 
the manner, and said, ' Sir Patrick, you are 
come a little too late ; yonder is vour'sister's ' 
son lying, but he wants hi-, head : take his | 
body, and do with it what you will.' — Sir! 
Patrick answered again, with a sore heart, and 
said, ' My lord, if ye have taken from him his 
head, dispone upon the body as ye please ; ' 
and with that called for his horse, and leaped 
thereon ; and when he was on horseback, he 
said to the Earl on this manner, ' My lord, if 
1 live you shall be rewarded for your labors 
that you have used at this time, according to 
your demerits.' 

" At this saying the Earl was highly of- 
fended, and cried for horse. .Sir Patrick, see- 
ing the Earl's fury, spurred his horse, but he 
was chased near Edinburgh ere they left liim ; 
and had it not been his led horse was so tried 
and good he had been taken. "--Pjtscottie's 
History, p. 39. 

Note 7.;. 
A letter forged'. — Saint Jude to speed! 
Did ez'er knight so foul a deed ! — P. gg. 
Lest the reader should partake of the Earl's 



astonishment, and consider these crimes incon- 
sictont with the manners of the period, I have 
to remind him of the numerous forgerie (partly 
executed by a female assistant) devised by 
Robert of Artois. to forward his suit against the 
Countess Matilda ; which, being detected, oc- 
casioned his flight into England, and proved 
the remote cause of Edward the Third's me- 
morable wars m France. John Harding, also, 
was expressly hired by Edward I. to forge such 
documents as might appear to establish the 
claim of fealty asserted over Scotland by the 
English monarchs. 

Note 75. 

Twisel bridge.— "P. roo. 

On the evening previous to the memorable 
battle of Flodden, Surrey's head-quarters were 
at Barmoor Wood, and King James held an 
inaccessible position on the ridge of Flodden- 
hill, one of th-e last and lowest eminences de- 
tached from the ridge of Cheviot. The Till, a 
deep and slow river, winded between the 
armies. On the morning of the 9th September, 
1513, Surrey marched in a north-westerly direc- 
tion, and crossed the Till, with his van and 
artillery, at Twiselbridge, nigh where that river 
joins the Tweed, his rear-guard column passing 
about a mile higher, by a ford. This move- 
ment had the double effect of placing his army 
between King James and his supplies from 
Scotland, and of striking the Scottish monarch 
with surprise, as he seems to have relied on the 
depth of the river in his front. But as the 
passage, both over the bridge and through the 
ford, was difficult and slow, it seems possible 
that the English might have been attacked to 
great advantage while struggling with these 
natural obstacles. I know not if we are to 
impute James's forbearance to want of military 
skill, or to the romantic declaration which 
Pitscottie puts in his mouth, " that he was 
determined to have his enemies before him on 
a plain field," and therefore would suffer no 
interruption to be given, even by artillery, to 
their passing the river.' 

Note 76. 

Hence jnight they see the full array, 
Of either host, for deadly fray. — P. loi. 

L fic reader cannot here expect a full accoua 
of the battle of Flodden , but, so far as is 
necessary to understand the romance, I beg to 
remind him, that, when the English army, by 
their skilful countermarch, were fairly placed 
between King James and his own country^ the 
Scottish monarch resolved to ficht , and, setting 
file to his tents, descended from the ridge of 
Flodden to secure the neighboring eminence 
of Brankstone, on which that village is built. 
Thus the two armies met, almost without see- 
ing each other, when, according to the old 
poem, of " Flodden Field," 







MARAI/ON. 



613 



"The English line stretch'd east and west, 
And southward were their faces set ; 
The Scottish northward proudly prest, 
And manfully their foes they met." 
The English army advanced in four divisions. 
On the right, which first engaged, were the 
sons of Earl Surrey, namely. Thomas Howard, 
the Admiral of England, and Sir Edmund, the 
Knight Marshal of the army. Their divisions 
were separated from each other ; but, at the 
request of Sir Edmund, his brother's battalion 
was drawn very near to his own. The centre 
was commanded by Surrey in person ; the left 
wing by Sir Edward Stanley, with tlie men of 
Lancashire, and of the palatinate of Chester. 
Lord Dacres, with a large body of horse, 
formed a reserve. When the smoke, which 
the wind had driven between the armies, was 
somewhat dispersed, they perceived the Scots, 
who had moved down the hill in a similar order 
of battle and in deep silence. The Earls of 
Huntley and of Honie commanded their left 
wing, and cliarged Sir Edmund Howard with 
such success as entirely to defeat his part of 
the English right wing. Sir Edmund's banner 
was beaten down, and he himself escaped with 
difficulty to his brother's division. The Ad- 
miral, however, stood firm ; and Dacre advanc- 
ing to his support with the reserve of cavalry, 
probably between the intervals of the divisions 
commanded by the brothers Howard, appears 
to have kept the victors in effectual check. 
Home's men, chiefly Borderers, began to pillage 
the baggage of both armies ; and their leader 
is branded by the Scottish historians with neg- 
ligence or treachery. On the other hand, 
Hundey, on whom they bestow many en- 
comiums, is said by the English historians to 
have left the field after the first charge. Mean- 
while the Admiral, wiio^e flank these chiefs 
ought to have attacked, availed himself of their 
inactivity, and pushed forward agamst another 
large division of tlie Scottish army in his front, 
headed by the Earls of Crawford and INIont- 
rose, both of whom were slain, and their forces 
routed. On the left, the success of the English 
was yet more decisive; for the Scottish right 
wmg, consisting of undisciplined Highlanders, 
commanded by Lennox and Argyle, was unablp 
to sustain the charge of Sir Edward Stanley, 
and especially the severe execution of the Lan- 
cashire archers. The King and Surrey, who 
commanded the respective centres of their 
armies, were meanwhile engaged m close and 
dubious conflict. James, slirrounded by the 
flower of Ins kingdom, and, impatient o'f tlie 
galling discharge of arrows, supported also by 
his reserve under Bothwell, charged with such 
lury, that the standard of Surrey was in danger. 
At that critical moment, Stanlev. who 'had 
routed the left wing of the Scott'ish, pursued '< 
his career of victory and arrived on the risht 
flank, and in the rear of James'sdivision, which, j 
throwing itself into a circle, disputed the battle | 
till night cajue on. Surrey then drew back his I 



forces ; for the Scottish centre not having been 
broken, and their left wing being victorious, he 
yet doubted the event of the field. The Scot- 
tish army, however, felt their loss, and aban- 
doned the field of battle in disorder, before 
dawn. They lost, perhaps, from eight to ten 
thousand men ; but that included the very 
prime of their nobility, gentry, and even clergy. 
Scarce a family of eminence but has an an- 
cestor killed at Flodden ; and there is no prov- 
ince in Scotland, even at this day, where the 
battle is mentioned without a sensation of 
terror and |orrow. The English lost, also, a 
great number of men, perhaps within one-third 
of the vanquished, but they were of inferior 
note. 

Note 77. 

Brian Tufistail, stainless knight. — 

P. 102. 

Sir Briar. Tunstall, called in the romantic 
language of the time, Tunstall the Undefiled, 
was one of the few Englishmen of rank slain 
at Flodden. He figures in the ancient English 
poem, to which I may safely refer my readers ; 
as an edition, with full explanatory notes, has 
been published by my friend, Mr. Henry 
Weber. Tunstall, perhaps, derived his epithet 
of undefiled Uam his white armor and banner, 
the latter bearing a white cock, about to crow, 
as well as from his unstained loyalty and 
knightly faith. His place of residence was 
Thurland Castle. 

Note 78. 

Reckless of life, he desfier ate fought, 

A nd /ell on Flodden plain : 
Atid well iti death his trusty brand. 
Firm clencVd within his manly hand. 
Beseem' d the jitonarch slam. — P. 105. 
There can be no doubt that King James fell 
in the battle of Flodden. He was killed, says 
the curious French Gazette, within a lance's 
length of the Earl of Surrey ; and the same 
account adds, that none of his division were 
rnade prisoners, though many were killed ; a 
circumstance that testifies the desperation of 
their resistance. The Scottish historians re- 
cord many of the idle reports whicli passed 
among the vulgar of their day. Home was ac- 
cused by the popular voice, not onlv of fail- 
ing to support the King, but even of having 
carried him out of the field, and murdered him 
And this tale was revived in mv remembrance, 
by an unauthenticated story of a skeleton, 
wrapped in a bull's hide, and surrounded with 
an iron chain, said to have been found in the 
well of Home Castle ; for which, on inquiry. 
I could never find any better authority than tlie 
sexton of the parish having said that, if the 
well were cleaned out, he would not be sur- 
prised at such a discovery Home was the 
chamberlain of the King, and his ]ii ime favor- 
ite ; he had much to lose (in fact did lose all) 
in consequence of James's deaili, and uothinc 






Hh-5 




6m 



APPENDIX. 



earthly to gain by that event ; but the retreat, 
or inactivity of the left win-g winch Ne com- 
manded, after defeating Sir Edmund Howard, 
and even the circumstance of his returning un- 
hurt, and loaded with spoil, from so fatal a 
conflict, rendered the propagation of any 
calumny against him easy and acceptable. 
Other reports gave a still more romantic turn 
to the King's fate, and averred, that James, 
weary of greatness, after the carnage among 
his nobles, had gone on a pilgrimage, to merit 
absolution for the death of his father, and the 
breach of his oath of amity to Henry. In par- 
ticular, it was objected to the I?nglish, that 
they could never show the token of the iron 
belt . which, however, he was likely enough to 
have laid aside on the day of the battle, as en- 
Cumbering his personal exertions. They produce 
a better evidence, the monarch's sword and 
dagger, which are still preserved in the Herald's 
College in London. Stowe has recorded a de- 
grading story of the disgrace with which the 



remains of the unfortunate monarch were treated 
in his time. An unhewn column marks the 
spot where fames fell, still called the King's 
Stone. 

Note 79. 
The fair cathedral storm' d and took. — 
P ;o5 
This storm of Lichfield cathedral, which had 
been garrisoned on the part of the King, took 
place in the Great Civil War. Lord Brook, 
who, with Sir John Gill, commanded the as- 
sailants, was shot with a musket-ball through 
the vizor of his helmet. The royalists remarked, 
that he was killed by a shot fired from St. 
Chad's cathedral, and upon St. Chad's Day, 
and received his death-wound in the very eye 
with which, he had said, he hoped to see the 
ruin of all the cathedrals in England. The 
magnificent church in question suffered cruelly 
upon this and other occasions ; the principal 
spire being mined by the fire of the besiegers. 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE- 



-—^ the heights of Ua m- I'ar, 
And roused the cavern, ivhere, ^tis told, 
A giant made his den of old. — P. 1 u . 

Ua-var. as the name is pronounced, or more 
properly Uaighinor, is a mountain to the 
north-east of the village of Callender in Men- 
teith, deriving its name, which signifies the 
great den or cavern, from a sort of retreat 
among the rocks on the south side, said, by 
tradition, to have been the abode of a giant. 
In latter times, it was the refuge of robbers 
and banditti, who have been only extirpated 
within these forty or fifty years. Strictly 
speaking, this stronghold is not a cave, as the 
name would imply, but a sort of small enclosnire, 
or recess, surrounded with large rocks, and 
open above head. 

Note 2. 

Tivo dogs of black Saint Hnbert's breed, 
Unmatch'' d for courage, breath, and speed. 



" The hounds which we call Saint Hubert's 
hounds, are commonly all blacke, yet neuer- 
theless, tlie race is so mingled at these days, 
that we find them of all colours. These are 
the hounds which the abbots of St. Hubert 
haue always kejit some of their race or kind, 
in honour or remembrance of the saint, which 



was a hunter with S. Eustace. Whereupon 
we may conceiue that (by the grace of God) 
all good huntsmen shall follow them into par- 
adise." — The Noble Art of I'enerie or H jutt- 
ing, translated and collected for the Use cf all 
Noblernen and Gentlemen. Lond. 161 1, 4to, 
p. 15. 

Note 3. 

For the death-ivoiind and dcath-hallor, 
Muster' d his breath, his tvhinyard drc-ai. — 



When the stag turned to bay, the ancient 
hunter had the perilous task of going in upon, 
and killing or disabling the desperate animal. 
At certain times of the year this was held par- 
ticularly dangerous, a wound received from a 
stag's horn being then deemed poisonous, and 
more dangerous than one from the tusks of a 
boar, as the old rhyme testifies : — 

" If thou be hurt with liart, it brings thee to thy 
bier, 
But barber's hand will boar's hurt heal, there- 
fore thou need'st not fear." 

At all times, however, the task was dangerous, 
and to be adventured upon wisely and warily, 
either by getting behind the stag while he was 
gazing on the hounds, or by watching an op- 
purtunvty to gallop roundly in ujion him, and 
kill him with the sword. 




y 





THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



615 




Note 4. 

A ndnew to issue from ike glen, 
Ne patlfway meets the wanderer' s bffn, 
Unless he ciinih, -with footing nice, 
A far projecting precipice. — P. 112. 

Until the present road was made through 
the romantic pass which I have presumptu- 
ously attempted to describe in the preceding 
stanzas, there was no mode of issuing out of 
the defile called the Trosachs, excepting by a 
sort of ladder, composed of the branches and 
roots of trees. 

Note 5. 

To 7neet ivith Highland plunderers here. 

Were ivorse than loss of steed or deer. — 
P- 113- 

The clans whoinliabited the romantic regions 
in the neighborhood of Loch Katrine, were, 
even until a late period, much addicted to 
predatory excursions upon their Lowland 
neighbors. 

Note 6. 

A gray-hair'' d sire, xvhose eye intent, 
Was on the visioned future bent. — P. 114. 

If force oi evidence could authorize us to be- 
lieve facts inconsistent with the general laws of 
naiure, enough might be produced in favor of 
the existence of the Second-sight. It is called 
in Gaelic Taishitaraiigh, from J'aish, an un- 
real or shadowy appearance ; and those pos- 
sessed of the faculty are called Taishairin, 
which may be aptly translated visionaries. 
Martin, a steady believer in the second-sight, 
gives the following account of it : — 

"The second-sight is a singular faculty, of 
seeing an otherwise invisible object, without 
any previous means used by the person that 
used it for that end ; the vision makes such a 
lively impression upon the seers, that they 
neither see, nor think of anything else, except 
the vision, as long as it continues ; and then 
they appear pensive or jovial, according to the 
object that was represented to them. 

" At the sight of a vision, the eyelids of the 
person are erected, and the eyes continue star- 
ing until the object vanish. This is obvious to 
others who are by, when the persons happen to 
see a vision, and occurred more than once to 
my own observation, and to others that were 
with me, 

" If a woman is seen standing at a man's left 
hand, it is a presage that she will be his wife, 
whether they be married to others, or unmarried 
at the time of the apparition. 

•' To see a spark of fire fall upon one's arm or 
breast, is a forerunner of a dead child to be seen 
in the arms of those persons ; of which there 
are several fresh instances. 

''To see a seat empty at the time of one's 
sitting in it, is a presage ot that jicrson's death 
soon after." — Martin's Description of the 
Western Islands, 1716, Svi.', p. .300, et seq. 



c_4_ 



To these particulars innumerable example; 
might be added, all attested by grave and 
credible authors. But, in despite of evidence 
which neither Bacon, Boyle, nor Johnson were 
able to resist, the Taisch, with all its visionary 
properties, seems to be new universallv aban- 
doned to the use of poetry. The exquisitely 
beautiful poem of Lochicl will at once occur to 
the recollection of every reader. 

Note 7. 
Here, for retreat in dangerous hour. 
Some chief had framed a rustic bower 

P. 115, 
The Celtic chieftains, whose lives were con- 
tinually exposed to peril, had usually, in the 
most retired spot of their domains, some place 
of retreat for the hour of necessity, which, as 
circumstances would admit, was a tower, a 
cavern, or a rustic hut, in a strong and secluded 
situation. One of these last gave refuge to the 
unfortunate Charles Edward, in his perilous 
wanderings after the battle of Culloden. 

Note 8. 

My sire' s tall for in might grace the part 

Of Ferragus or Ascakart. — P. 116. 

These two sons of Anak flourished in roman- 
tic fable. The first is well known to the ad- 
mirers of Ariosto, by the name of Ferrau. He 
was an antagoni' t of Orlando, and was at length 
slain by him in single combat. 

Ascapart, or Ascabart, makes a very material 
figure in the History of Bevis of Hampton, by 
whom he was conquered. His effigies may be 
seen guarding one side of agate at Southampton, 
while the other is occupied by Sir Bevis himself. 

Note g. 

Though all unask'd his birth and nartie. — 
P. 116. 

The Highlanders, who carried hospitality to 
a punctilious excess, are said to have considered 
It as churlish, to ask a stranger his name or 
lineage, before he had taken refreshment. 
Feuds were so frequent among them, that a 
contrary rule would in many cases have pro- 
duced the discovery of some circumstance, 
which might have excluded the guest from the 
benefit of the assistance hi! stood in need of. 

NOTB 10. 
Morn's gettial influence roused a mtnstre 
i^yny. 

Allan Bane. — P. 117. 

The Highland chieftains retained in their 
service the bard, as a family officer, to a late 
period. 

Note ti. 

The Grceme.—V. 118. 

The ancient and powerful famliy of Graham 
(which, for metrical reasons, is here si^elt after 
the Scottish [wonunciation) held extensive pos 





6i6 



APPENDIX. 



sessions in the counties of Dumbarton and Stir- 
ling. Few families can boast of more historical 
renown, having claim to three ol the most re- 
markable characters in the Scottish annals. Sir 
John the Graeme, the faithful and undaunted 
partaker of the labors and patriotic warfare of 
Wallace, fell in the unfortunate field of Falkirk, 
1298. The celebrated Marquis of Montrose, in 
whom De Retz saw realized his abstract idea of 
the heroes of antiquity, was the second of these 
worthies. And, notwithstanding the severity 
of his temper, and the rigor with which he 
executed the oppressive mandates of the princes 
whom he served, I do not hesitate to name as 
a third, John Grsnie of Claverhouse, Viscount 
of Dundee, whose heroic death in the arms of 
victory may be allowed to cancel the memory 
of his cruelty to the nonconformists, during the 
reigns of Charles II. and James ll. 

Note 12. 

This harf, which erst Saint Modan sway' d. 
—P. 119. 

I am not prepared to show that Sauit Modan 
was a performer on the harp. It was, however, 
no unsaintly accomplishment ; for Saint Dun- 
stan certainly did play upon that instrument, 
which retaining, as was natural, a portion of 
the sanctity attached to its master's character, 
announced future events by its spontaneous 
sound. 

Note 13. 

Erf Douglasses, to ruin driven, 
Were exiled/rom their ?iative heaven. 

-P. 1.9. 
The downfall of the Douglasses of the house 

of Angus during the reign of James V. is the 

event alluded to in the text. 

Note 14 

In Holy-Rood a kfiight he slew. — P. 120. 

This was by no means an uncommon occur- 
rence in the Court of Scotland ; nay, the 
presence of the sovereign himself scarcely re- 
strained the ferocious and inveterate feuds 
which were the perpetual source of bloodshed 
among the Scottish nobility. The murder of 
Sir Wiliiam Stuart of Ochiltree, called The 
Bloody, by the celebrated Francis, Earl of 
Bothwell, may be mentioned among many 
others. — Johnston: Historia Rerum Britan- 
nicaruni, ab anno 1572 ad annum 1628. Am- 
stelodami, 1655, fol. p. 135. 

Note 15. 

The Douglas, like a stricken deer. 
Disown' d by every noble peer. — P. 120. 

The exile state of tliis powerful race is not 
exaggerated in this and subsequent passages. 
The hatred of James against the race of Doug- 
las was so inveterate, that numerous as their 



allies were, and disregarded as the regal author- 
ity had usually been in similar cases, their 
nearest friends, even in the most remote parts 
of Scotland, durst not entertain them, unless 
under the strictest and closest disguise. 

Note 16. 

Maronnan'' s cell. — P- 120. 

The parish of Kilmaronock, at the eastern 
extremity of Loch Lomond, derives its name 
from a cell or chapel, dedicated to St. Maro- 
nock, or Marnock, or Maronnan, about whose 
sanctity very little is now remembered. There 
is a fountain devoted to him in the same pa'ish ; 
but its virtues, like the merits of its patron, have 
fallen into oblivion. 

Note 17. 

Brackliiin' s thunder ing wave. — P. 120. 

This is a beautiful cascade made by a moun- 
tain stream called the Keltic, at a place called 
the Bridge of Bracklinn. about a mile from the 
village of Callender in Menteith. 

Note (S. 
For Tine-}nan forged by fairy lore. — P. 120. 

Archibald, the third Earl of Douglas, was so 

unfortunate in all his enterprises, that he ac- 

I quired the epithet of Tineman, because he 

tined, or lost, his followers, in every battle 

which he fought. 

Note 19. 
Did, self-unscabbarded, foreshow 
The footstep of a secret foe. — P. 120. 
The ancient warriors, whose hope and con- 
fidence rested chiefly in their blades, were ac- 
customed to deduce omens from them, especially 
from such as was supposed to have been fabri- 
cated by enchanted skill, of which we have 
various instances in the romances and legends 
of the time. 

Note 20. 

Those thrilling sounds that call the might 
Of old Clatt-Alpine to the fight. — P. 121. 

The connoisseurs in pipe-music affect to dis- 
cover in a well-composed pibroch, the imitative 
sounds of march, conflict, flight, pursuit, and all 
the "current of a heady fight." 

Note 21. 

Roderigh Vich A Ipine dhu, ho I ieroe .' 

—P. 121. 
Besides his ordinary name and surname, 
which were chiefly used in the intercourse with 
the Lowlands, every Highland chief had an 
epithet expressive of his patriarchal dignity as 
head of the clan, and which wa? common to 
all his predecessors and successors, as Pharaoh 
to the kings of Egypt, or Arsaces to those of 







THh. LA^Y OB THE LAKE. 



617 



Parthia, this name was usuplly a patronymic, 
expressive of his descent from the founder of 
the family. Thus the Duke ot Argyle is called 
MacCallum More, orthe jo» ofColinthe Great. 

Note 22. 

And wJtile the Fiery Cross s:lanced like a 

meteor, round. — P. 126. 

When a chieftain designed to summon his 
clan upon any sudden or important emerger^cy, 
he slew a s;oat, and making a cross of any light 
wood, seared its extremeties in the fire, and ex- 
tinguished them in the blood of the animal. 
This was called the Fiery Cross, also Crean 
Tarig-h, or the Cross of Shame, because dis- 
obedience to what the symbol implied, inferred 
infamy. It was delivered to a swift arid trusty 
messenger, who ran full speed with it to the 
next hamlet, where he presented it to the prin- 
cipal person, with a single word, implying the 
place of rendezvous. He who received the 
symbol was bound to send it forward with equal 
despatch to the next village, and thus it passed 
with incredible celerity through all the district 
which owed allegiance to the chief, and also 
among his allies and neighbors, if the danger 
was common to them. At sight of the Fiery 
Cross, every man, from sixteen years old to 
sixty, capable of bearing arms, was obliged in- 
stantly to repair, in his best arms and accoutre- 
ments, to the place of rendezvous. _ He who 
failed to appear, suffered the extremities of fire 
and sword, which were emblematically de- 
nounced to the disobedient by the bloody and 
burnt marks upon this warlike signal. During 
the civil war of 1745-6, the Fiery Cross often 
made its circuit : and upon one occasion it 
passed through the whole district of Breadal- 
bane, a tract, of thirty-two miles, in three hours. 

Note 23. 
That monk, of savage form and face.— V. 127. 

The state of religion in the middle ages 
afforded considerable facilities for those whose 
mode of life excluded them from regular wor- 
ship, to secure, nevertheless, the ghostly assist- 
ance of confessors, perfectly willing to adapt 
the nature of their doctrine to the necessities 
and peculiar circumstances of their_ flock. 
Robin Hood, it is well known, had his cele- 
brated domestic chaplain. Friar Tuck. 

Note 24. 
Of Brian's birth strange tales were told. 

-P. .27. 
The legend which follows is not of the author's 
invention. It is possible he may differ from 
modern critics, in supposing that the records of 
human superstition, if peculiar to, and charac- 
teristic of, the country in which the scene it 
laid, are a legitimate subject of poetry. He 
gives, however, ready assent to the narrower 
proposition which condemns all attempts of an 



irregular and disordered fancy to excite terror, 
by accumulating a train of fantastic and inco- 
herent horrors, whether borrowed from all 
countries and patched upon a narrative belong- 
ing to one which knew them not, or derived 
from the author's own imagination. In the 
present case, therefore, I appeal to the record 
which I have transcribed, with the variation of 
a very few words from the geographical collec- 
tions made by the Laird of Macfarlane. I 
know not whether it be necessary to remark, 
that the miscellaneous concourse of youths and 
maidens on the night and on the spot where the 
miracle is said to have taken place, might, even 
in a credulous age, have somewhat diminished 
the wonder which accompanied the conception 
of Gilli-Doir-Magrevolich. 

"There is bot two myles from Inverloghie, 
the church of Kilmalee, in Lochyeld. In an- 
cient tymes there was ane church builded upon 
ane hill, which was above this church, which 
doeth now stand in this toune ; and ancient 
men doeth say, that there was abattell foughten 
on ane litle hill not the tenth part of a myle from 
this church, be certaine men which they did not 
know what they were. And long tyme there- 
after, certaine herds of that toune, and of the 
next toune, called Unnatt, both wenches and 
youthes, did on a tyme conveen with others on 
that hill ; and the day being somewhat cold, 
did gather the bones of the dead men that were 
slayne long tyme before in that place, and did 
make a fire to warm them. At last they did 
all remove from the fire, except one maid or 
wench, which was verie cold, and she did re- 
maine there for a space. She being quyetlie 
her alone, without anie other companie, took 
up her cloaths above her knees, or thereby to 
warm her; a wind did come and caste the 
ashes upon her, and she was conceived of ane 
man-chyld. Severall tymes thereafter she was 
verie sick, and at last she was knowne to be 
with chyld. And then her parents did ask at 
her the matter heiroff, which the wench could 
not weel answer which way to satisfie them. At 
last she resolved them with ane answer. As 
fortune fell upon her concerning this marvellous 
miracle, the chyld being borne, his name was 
called Gili-doir Maghrevollich, that is to say, 
the Black Child, Son to the Bones. So called, 
his grandfather sent him to school, and so he 
was a good schollar, and godlie. He did build 
this church which doeth now stand in Lochyeld, 
called Kilmalie." — Macfarlane, utsupra, iL 
188. 

Note 25. 

Yet ne' er again to braid he7- hair 

The Virgin snood did A lice wear. — P. 127. 

The snood, or riband, with which a Scottish 
lass braided her hair, had an emblematical sig. 
nification, and applied to her maiden character. 
It was exchanged for the ciirch, toy, or coif- 
when she passed, by marriage, into the matron 
state. But if the damsel was so unfortunate as 
to lose pretensions to the name of maider 




«— fr- 





]^ 



6i8 



APPENDTX. 



without gaining a right to that of matron, she 
was neither permitted to use the snood, nor 
advanced to the graver dignity of the curch. 
In old Scottish songs there occur many sly allu- 
sions to such misfortune ; asm the old words to 
the popular tune of " Owerthe muir amang the 
heather." 

" Down amang the broom, the broom, 
Down amang the broom, my dearie, 
The lassie lost her silken snood, 
That gard her greet till she was wearie." 

Note 26. 

The fatal Ben-Skiers boding screatn. — P. 12S. 

Most great families m the Highlands were 
supposed to have a tutelar, or rather a domes- 
tic spirit, attached to them, who took an in- 
terest in their prosperity, and intimated, by its 
wailings, any approaching disaster. A super- 
stition of the same kind is, I believe, univers- 
ally received by the inferior ranks of the native 
Irish. 

Note 27. 

Sounds, too, had come in midnight blast 
0/ charging steeds, careering fast 
Along Benharroiv^ s shingly side. 
Where mortal horsemeti ite' er jniP'htride. 
-P. 128. 

A presage of the kind alluded to in the text, 
is still believed to announce death to the an- 
cient Highland family of M'Lean of Lochbuy. 
The spirit of an ancestor slain in battle is heard 
to gallop along a stony bank, and then to ride 
thrice around the family residence, ringing his 
fairy bridle, and thus intimating the approach- 
ing calamity. 

Note 28. 

the dun deer^s hide 

On fleeter foot ■was never tied. — P. 129. 

The present brogue of the Highlanders is 
nade of half-dried leather, with holes to admit 
ind let out the water ; for walking the moors 
dry-shod is a matter altogether out of the ques- 
tion. The ancient buskin was still ruder, being 
made of undressed deer's hide, with the hair 
sutwards , a circumstance which procured the 
Highlanders the well-known epithet of Rcd- 
ihanks. 

Note 29. 

The dismal coro7iach. — 130. 

The Coronach tif the Highlanders, like the 
Uhdatiis oi the iiomans, and the Ulidoo of 
the Irish, was a wild expression of lamenta- 
tion, poured f>rth by the mourners over the 
body of a departed friend. When the words 
of it were articulate, they expressed the praises 
n\ the deceased, and the loss the clan would 
■^.ustain bv his dcth. 




Note 30. 

Not faster o'er thy heathery braes, 
Balguidder, speeds the midnight blaze. 

-P. 132 

It may be necessary to inform the souttiern 
reader, that the heath on the Scottish moor- 
lands IS often set fire to, that the sheep may 
have the advantage of the vouna: herbage pro- 
duced in room of the tough old heather plants. 
This custom (execrated by sportsmen) pro- 
duces occasionally the most beautiful nocturnal 
appeaiances, similar almost to the discharge 
of a volcano. This simile is not new to poetry. 
The charge of a warrior, m the fine ballad of 
Hardyknute, is said to be " like fire to heather 
set." 

Note 31. 

by many a bard, /« Celtic tongue. 

Has Coir-nan- Uriskin been sung. — P. 13s 

This IS a very steep and most romantic hol- 
low in the mountain of Benvenue, overhanging 
the south-eastern extremity of Loch Katrine. 
It IS surrounded with stuiiendous rocks, and 
overshadowed with birch-trees, mingled with 
oaks, the spontaneous production of the moun- 
tain, even where its cliffs appear denuded ol 
son. 

Note 32. 

The Taghairm call'd ; by -which, afar. 

Our sires foresaw the events of -var. — P. 134. 

The Highlanders, like all rude people, had 
various superstitious modes of inquiring into 
futurity. One of the most noted was the Tag- 
hairm, mentioned in the text. A person was 
wrapped up in the skin of a newly-slain bul- 
lock, and deposited beside a waterfall, or at 
the bottom of a precipice, or in some other 
strange, wild, and unusual situation, where 
the scenerv around him suggested nothing 
but subjects of horror. In this situation, he 
revolved in his mind the question proposed ; 
and whatever was impressed upon him by 
his exalted imagination, passed for the in 
spiration of the disembodied spirits, win 
haunt the desolate recesses. 



Note 33. 

that huge cliff, ivhose ample verge 

Tradition calls the Heroes Targe. — P. 135. 

There is a rock so named in the Forest of 
Glenfinlas, by which a tumultuary cataract 
lakes its course. This wild place is said in 
former times to have afforded refuge to an out- 
law, who was supplied with provisions by a 
woman, who lowered them down from the 
brink of the precipice above. His waterhe pro- 
cured for hiniself,by lettingdown a tJagontied 
to a string, into the black pool beneath th'^ fall. 






THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



619 




Note 34. 

Which spills the /oremost /oeman' s life, 
Thai party ronquers in the strife, — P. 135. 
Though this be in the text described as a re- 
sponse of the Taghairm, or Oracle of the Hide, 
it was ot itself an augury frequently attended 
to. The fate of the battle was often anticipated 
in the imagination of the combatants, by ob- 
serving which party first shed blood. It 
is said that the Highlanders under Montrose 
were so deeply imbued with this' notion, that, 
on the morning of the battle of Tippermoor, 
they murdered a defenceless herdsman, whom 
they found m the fields, merely to secure 
an advantage of so much consequence to their 
party. 

Note 35 

Why sou7ids yon stroke on beech and oak. 
Our moonlight circle's screen ? 

Or who comes here to chase the deer, 
Beloved of our Elfin Queen ? — P 137. 

Fames, if not positively malevolent, are ca- 
pricious, and easily offended. They are, like 
other proprietors of the forest, peculiarly jeal- 
ous of their rights ot vert and venison. This 
jealousy was also an attribute of the northern 
Duergar, or dwarfs ; to many of whose dis- 
tinctions the fairies seem to have succeeded, 
if, indeed, they are not the same class of 
beings. 

Note 36. 

ivho tnay dam on wold to "wear 

The fairies' fatal green ? — P. 137. 

As the Daoine Shi', or Men of Peace, wore 
green habits, they were supposed to take of- 
fence when any mortals ventured to assume 
their favorite color. Indeed, from some reason 
which has been, perhaps, originally a general 
superstition, green is held m Scotland to be 
unlucky to particular tribes and counties. The 
Caithness men, who hold this belief, allege as a 
reason, that their bands wore that color when 
they were cut off at the battle of Flodden; and 
for the same reason they avoid crossing the 
Ord on a Monday, being the day of the week 
on which their ill-omened array set forth. 
Green is also disliked by those of the name of 
Ogilvy ; but more especially it is held fatal to 
the whole clan of Grahame. It is remembered 
of an aged gentleman of that name, that when 
his horse fell in a fox-chase, he accounted for 
it at once by observing, that the whipcord 
attached to his lash was of this unlucky color. 

Note 37. 

For thou wert christen^ d man. — P. 137. 

The elves were supposed greatly to envy the 
privileges acquired by Christian initiation, and 
they gave to those mortals who had fallen into 
their power a certain precedence, founded upon 



^=t- 



this advantageous distinction. Tamlane, in the 
old ballad, describes his own rank in the iairy 
procession : — 

" For I ride on a milk-white steed. 
And aye nearest the town ; 
Because I was a christen'd knight, 
They gave me that renown. 

Note 38. 

Who ever reck'd, where, how, or when. 
The prowling fox was trapp d or slain ? 

—P. 142 

St. John actually used this illustration when 
engaged in confuting the plea of law proposed 
for the unfortunate Earl of Strafford : " It was 
true we gave laws to hares and deer, because 
they are beasts of chase ; but it was never ac- 
counted either cruelty or foal play to knock 
foxes or wolves on the head as they can be 
found, because they are beasts of prey. In a 
word, the law and humanity were alike ; the 
one being more falacious, and the other more 
barbarous, than in any age had been rented 
in such an authority." — Clarendon's History 
of the Rebellion. Oxford, 1702, fol. vol. p. 183. 

Note 39 

his H ighlaiia chee^, 

TJie harden' d flesh <?/ vwuntaiti deer. — P. ?42. 

The Scottish Highlanders in former times, 
had a concise mode of cooking their venison, 
or rather of dispensing with cooking it, which 
appears greatly to have surprised the French 
whom chance made acquainted with it. The 
Vidame of Cliarters, when a hostage in Eng- 
land, during the reign of Edward VI., was per- 
mitted to travel into Scotland, and penetrated 
as far as to the remote Highlands {au fin fond 
des Sauvages). After a great hunting party, at 
which a most wonderful quantity of game was 
destroyed, he saw these Scottish Savages 
devour a part of their venison raw, without any 
farther preparation than compressing it be- 
tween two batons of wood, so as to force out 
the blood and render it extremely hard. This 
they reckoned a great delicacy ; and when the 
Vidame partook of it, his compliance with their 
taste rendered him extremely popular. 

Note 40. 

Not then claim' d sovereignty his due 
While A Ibany, with feeble hand, 
Held borrow' d truncheon of contmctnd, 

-P. 143- 

There is scarcely a more disorderly period in 
Scottish history than that which succeeded the 
battle of Flodden, and occupied the minority of 
James V. Feuds of ancient standing broke out 
like old wounds, and every quarrel among the 
independent nobility, which occurred daily, and 
almost hourly, gave rise to fresh bloodshed. 






620 



APPENDIX 



Note 41. 

/ only meant 

To skoiu the reed o>i which you leant. 
Deeming this />ath you fnight pursue 
IVithoiii a pass/ro7n Roderick Dhu. — P. 145. 

This incident, like some other passages in the 
poem, illustrative of the cliaracterof the ancient 
Gael, is not nnaginary, but borrowed from fact. 
The Highlanders, with the inconsistency of 
most nations in the same state, were alternately 
capable of great exertions of generosity, and of 
cruel revenge and perfidy. 

Note 42 

On B-^chastle the mouldering lines. 
Where Rome, the Empress o_f the world, 
0/yore her eagle-wings unfurl' d. — P. 145. 

The torrent which discharges itself from 
Loch Vennachar, the lowest and eastmost of 
the three lakes which form the scenery adjoin- 
ing to the Trosachs, sweeps through a flat and 
extensive moor, called Bochastle. Upon a small 
eminence, called the Dun of Bochastle, and in- 
deed on the plain itself, are some intrench- 
ments, which have been thought Rornan. 
There is, adjacent to Callender, a sweet villa, 
the residence of Captain Fairfoul, entitled the 
Roman Camp. 

Note 43. 

See, here, all vantageless I stand, 

A rtn^d, like thyself, ivith single brand. 

-P. 145. 

The duellists of former times did not always 
stand upon those punctilios respecting equality 
of arms, which are now judged essential to fair 
combat. It is true, that in former combats in 
the lists, the parties were, by the judges of the 
field, put as nearly as possible in the same 
circumstances. But in private duel it was often 
otherwise. 

Note 44. 

Ill fared it the}! with Roderick Dhu, 
That on the field Iiis tarj^e he threw. 
For trained abroad his arms to wield, 
Fitz-yames' s blade luas sword and shield. 
—P. 146. 

A round target of light wood, covered with 
strong leather, and studded with brass or iron, 
■was a necessary part of a Highlander'?, equip- 
ment. In charging regular troops, they re- 
ceived the thrust of the bayonet in this buckler, 
twistea it aside, and u=ed the broadsword 
against the encumbered soldier. In the civil 
war of 1745, most of tne front rank of the clans 
were thus armed ; and Capta'in Grose informs 
us, that, in 1747, the privates of the 42d regi- 
ment, then in Flanders, -were, for the most 
part, permitted to carry targets. — Military 
Antiquities, vol. i. p. 164. 



Note 41;. 

The burghers hold their sports to-day. — 

P. 148. 

Every burgh of Scotland, of the least note, 
but more especially the considerable towns, had 
their solemn play, or festival, when feats oi 
archery were exhibited, and prizes distributed 
to those who excelled in wrestling, hurling the 
bar, and the other gymnastic exercises of the 
period. Stirling, a usual place of royal resi- 
dence, was not likely to be deficient in pomp 
upon such occasions, especially since James V. 
was very partial to them. His ready partici- 
pation in these popular amusements was one 
cause of his acquiring the title of King of the 
Commons, or Rex Plebeiorum, as Lesley has 
latinized it. The usual prize to t)ie best shooter 
was a silver arrow. Such a one is preserved at 
Selkirk and at Peebles. 

Note 46. 
Robin Hood.— v. 448. 
The exhibition of this renowned outlaw and 
his band was a favorite frolic at such festivals 
as we are describing. This sporting, in which 
kings did not disdain to be actors, was pro- 
hibited in Scotland upon the Reformation, by a 
statute, of the 6th Parliament of Queen Mary, 
c. 61, A.D. 1555, which ordered, under heavy 
penalties., that, '' na manner of person be chosen 
Robert Hude, nor Little John, Abbot of Ui;- 
reason, Queen of j\lay, nor otherwise." But in 
1561, the " rascal multitude," says John Knox, 
" were stirred up to make a Robin Hude, whilk 
enormity was of many years left and damned 
by statute and act of Parliament ; yet would 
they not be forbidden." Accordingly, they 
raised a very serious tumult, and at length 
made prisoners the magistrates who endeav- 
ored to suppress it, and would not release 
them till tliey extorted a formal promise tliaf 
no one should be punished for his share of the 
disturbance. It would seem, from the com- 
plaints of the General Assembly of the Kirk, 
that these profane festivites were continued 
down to 1592. 

Note 47. 

Prize of the wrestling match, the King 
To Douglas gave a golden ring. — P. 148. 

The usual prize of a wrestling was a ram anci 
a ring, but the animal would have embarrassed 
my story. Thus, in the Cokes Tale of Gamelyii, 
ascribed to Chaucer : 

" There hajiped to be there beside, 
Tryed a wrestling ; 
And therefore there was y-setten 
A ram and als a ring." 

Note 48. 
These drew not for their fields tht swore 
Like tenants of a feudal lord. 







THE LADY OP THE LAKE. 



621 



Nor owti'd the patriarchal claim 
0/ Chieftain in their leader's name ; 
Advettturers they. — P. 151. 

The Scottish armies consisted chiefly of the 
r.obility and barons, with their vassals, who 
held lands under them, for military service by 
thetnselves and their tenants. The patriarchal 
influence exercised by the heads of clans in 
the Highlani^s and borders was of a different 
nature, and sometimes at variance with feudal 
principles. It flowed from the Putria Potestas-, 
exercised by the chieftain as representing the 
original father of the whole name, and was 
often obeyed in contradiction to the feudal 
superior. 

Note 49. 

Thoic noiu hast glee-maiden and harp ! 
Get thee ati ape, and trudge the land. 
The leader 0/ a juggler band. — P. 152. 

The jongleurs, or jugglers, used to call in the 
aid of various assistants, to render these per- 
formances as captivating as possible. The glee- 
maiden was a necessary attendant. Her duty 
was tumbling and dancing; and therefore the 
Anglo-Saxon version of St. Mark's Gospel 
states Herodias to have vaulted or tumbled 
before King Herod. 

Note 50. 

That stirring air that peals on high, 
O'er DerinicTs race our -jictory, — 
Strike it. — P. 155. 

There are several instances, at least in tradi- 
tion, of persons so much attached to particular 
tunes as to require to hear them on their death- 
bed. Such an anecdote is mentioned by the 
late Mr. Riddel of Glenriddel, in his collection 
of Border tunes, respecting an air called the 
" Dandling of the Bairns," for which a certain 
Gallovidian laird is said to have evinced this 
strong mark of partiality. It is popularly told 
of a famous freebooter, that he composed the 
tune known by the name of Macpherson's 
Rant, while under sentence of death, and played 
it at the gallows-tree. Some spirited words 
have been adapted to it by Burns. A similar 
story is recorded of a Welsh bard, who com- 
posed and played on his deathbed the air called 
Dafyddy Garregg Wen. 



Note 51, 

Battle of Bear an Duine. — P. 1$$. 

A skirmish actually took place at a pass thus 
called in the Trosachs, and closed with the 
remarkable incident mentioned in the text. It 
was greatly posterior in date to the reign of 
James V. 

Note 52- 

A nd Snoivdonn's Knight is Scotland's King. 
-P. 158. 

This discovery will probably remind the 
reader of the beautiful Arabian tale of // Bon- 
docani. Yet the incident is not borrowed from 
that elegant story, but from Scottish tradition. 
J.unes v., of whom we are treating, was a 
monarch whose good and benevolent intentions 
often rendered his romantic freaks venial, i( 
not respectable, since from his anxious atten- 
tion to the interests of the lower and most op- 
pressed class of his subjects he was, as we have 
seen, popularly termed the King of the Coin- 
mo7is. For the purpose of seeing that justice 
was regularly administered, and frequently 
from the less justifiable motive of gallantry, he 
used to traverse the vicinage of his several 
palaces in various disguises. The two excel- 
lent comic song.s, entitled, " The Gaberlunzie 
man," and " We'll gae nae mair a roving," are 
said to have been founded upon the success of 
his amorous adventures when travelling in the 
disguise of a beggar. The latter is perhaps the 
best comic ballad in any language. 



Note 53. 

Stirling's tower 

Of yore the name of Snowdoun claims. 

-P. 159- 

William of Worcester, who wrote about the 
middle of the fifteenth century, calls Stirling 
Castle Snowdoun. Sir David Lindesay bestows 
the same epithet upon it in his complaint ot 
the Papingo : — 

"Adieu, fair Snawdoun, with thy towers high, 
Thy chapel-royal, park, and table round ; 
May, June, and July, would I dwell in thee, 
Were I a man, to hear the birdis sound, 
Whilk doth againe thy royal rock rebound." 







6'22 



APPENDIX. 



THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 



Note i. 

A nd CattreaMs glens with voice of triumph 
rung, 
A nd mystic Merlin harp'd, and gray-hair d 
Llywrach sutig I — P. 162. 

This locality may startle those readers who 
do not recollect that much of the ancient po- 
etry preserved in Wales refers less to the history 
of 'the Principality to which that name is now 
limited, than to events which happened in the 
north-west of England and south-west of Scot- 
land, where the Britons for a long time made a 
stand against the Saxons. The battle of Cat- 
treath, lamented by the celebrated Aneunn, is 
supposed, by the learned Dr. Leyden, to have 
been fought on the skirts of Ettrick Forest. It 
is known to the English reader by the para- 
phrase of Gray, beginning, — 

" Had I but the torrent's might, 
With headlong rage and wild affright," &c. 

Note 2. 

Mincht»ore''s haimted spring.— 'P. 163. ] 

A belief in the existence and nocturnal revels 
of the fairies still lingers among the vulgar in 
Selkirkshire. A copious fountain upon the 
ridge of Minchmore, called the Cheese well, is 
supposed to be sacred to these fanciful spirits, 
and it was customary to propitiate them by 
throwing in something upon passing it. A pin 
was the" usual oblation ; and the ceremony is 
still sometimes practised, though rather in jest 
than earnest. 

Note 3. 

the rude villager, his labor done. 

In verse spontaneous chants some favored 
name. — P. 163. 
The flexibility of the Italian and Spanish 
languages, and perhaps the liveliness of their 
genius, renders these countries distinguished for 
the talent of improvisation, which is found even 
among the lowest of the people. It is men- 
tioned by Barett! and other travellers. 

Note 4. 

kindling at the deeds of GriEJne. — P. 163. 

Over a name sacred for ages to heroic verse, 
a poet may be allowed to exercise some power. 
I have used the freedom, here and elsewhere, 
to alter the orthography of the name of my 
gallant countryman, in order to apprise the 
Southern reader of its legitimate sound; — 
Grahame being, on the other side of the Tweed, 
usually pronounced as a dissyllable. 



Note 5. 

What .' will Don Roderick here till fnorn- 

ing stay. 

To wear in shrift and prayer the night atuay'' 

A ?idare his hours, in such dull penance past. 

For fair Florinda' s plunder^ d char ms to pay' 

—P. 164. 

Almost all the Spanish historians, as well as 
the voice of tradition, ascribe the invasion of 
the Moors to the forcible violation committed 
by Roderick upon Florinda, called by the 
Moors, Caba or Cava. She was the daughter 
of Count Julian, one of the Gothic monarch's 
principal lieutenants, who, wlien the crime was 
perpetrated, was engaged in the defence of 
Ceuta against the Moors. In his indignation 
at the ingratitude of his sovereign, and the 
dishonor of his daughter, Count Julian forgot 
the duties of a Christian and a patriot, and, 
forming an alliance with Musa, then the 
Caliph's lieutenant in Africa, he countenanced 
the invasion of Spain by a body of Saracens 
and Africans, commanded by the celebrated 
Tarik ; tlie issue of which was the defeat and 
death of Roderick, and the occupation of 
almost the whole peninsula by the Moors. 
Voltaire, in his General History, expresses his 
doubts of this popular story, and Gibbon gives 
him some countenance ; but the universal tradi- 
tion IS quite sufificient for the purposes of 
poetry. The Spaniards, in detestation of Flo- 
nnda's memory, are said, by Cervantes, never 
to bestow that name on any human female, re- 
serving It for their dogs. 

Note 6. 
The Tecbir war-cry and the Lelie's yell. 

—P. 166. 

The Tecbir (derived from the words Alia 

achar, God is most mighty), was the original 

war-cry of the Saracens. It is celebrated by 

Hughes m the Siege of Damascus : — 

" We heard the Tecbir ; so these Arabs call 
Tlieir shout of ons^t, when, with loud appeal. 
They challenge Heaven, as if demandina; 

conquest." 
The Lelie, well kcown to the Christian 
during the crusades, is the shout oi Alia ilia 
Alia, the Mahometan confession of faith. It 
is twice used in poetry by my friend Mr. W. 
Stewart Rose, in the romance of Partenopex, 
and in the Crusade of St. Lewis. 

Note 7. 

By Heaven, the Moors prevail ! the Ckrisiians 
yield !— 
Their coward leadg-r gives for flight tlie 






rHE VISION OF DON RODERICK 



The sceptred craven mounts to quit the field — who, having themselves the highest dread or 



Js not yon steed Orelia ? — Y'es, 




tis mine i 

P. J67. 

Count Julian, the father of the injured Flo- 
rinda, with the connivance and assistance of 
Oppas, Archbishop of Toledo, invited, in 713, 
the Saracens into Spain. A considerable army 
arrived under the command of Tarik, or Tarif, 
who bequeathed the well-known nam; of Gib- 
raltar {Gihel al Tarik, or the mountain of 
Tarik) to the place of his landing. He was 
oined by Count Julian, ravaged Andalusia, 
and took Seville. In 714, they returned with 
a still greater iorce, and Roderick marched 
into Andalusia at the head of a great army, to 

give them battle. The field was chosen near ^ ^, „ 

XereS. [Roderick was defeated, and fled from .That the energy of Spain has not uniformly 
the field of battle on bis favorite steed Orelia. , been directed by conduct equal to its vigor, 
This famous and matchless charger was found I has been too obvious ; that her armies, under 
riderless on the banks of the river Guadelite, their complicated disadvantages, have shared 
with the King's upper garment, buskins, &c. the fate of such as were defeated after taking 
It was supposed that in trying to swim the river the field with every possitle advantage of arms 
he was drowned. But wild legions as to his \ and discipline, is surely not to be wondered at. 
after fat*, long prevailed in _Spain. — See South- \ But that a nation, under the circumstances of 

repeated discomfiture, internal treason, and 
the mismanagement incident to a temporary 



veneration, or something allied to both, for the 
power of the modern Attila, will neverti.eiess 
give the heroical Spaniards little or no credit 
for the long, stubborn, and unsubdued resist- 
ance of three years to a power before whom 
their former well-prepared, well-armed, and 
numerous adversaries fell in the course of as 
many months. While these gentlemen plead 
for deference to Bonaparte, and crave 
" Respect for his great place, and bid the devil 

Be duly honor'd for his burning throne," 
it may not be altogether unreasonable to claim 
some modification of censure upon those who 
have been long and to a great extent success- 
fully resisting this great enemy of mankind. 



Bv's " Don Roderick." — Ed.] 
Note 8. 



When for the light bolero ready stand. 
The mozo blithe, with gay miichacha met . 
—P. 169. 

The bolero is a very light and active dance, 
much practised by the Spaniards, in which 
castanets are always used. Mozo and miicha 



and hastily adopted government, should have 
wasted, by its stubborn, uniform, and pro- 
longed resistance, myriads after myriads of 
those soldiers who had overrun the world — 
that some of its provinces should, like Galicia, 
after being abandoned by their allies, and 
overrun by their enemies, have recovered their 
freedom by their own unassisted exertions ; 



cha are equivalent to our phrase of lad and ; that others, like Catalonia, undismayed by the 

treason which betrayed some fortresses, and 
the force which subdued others, should not only 
have continued their resistance, but have at- 
tained over their victorious enemy a superiority, 
which IS even now enabling them to besiege 
and retake the place of strength which had 
been wrested from them, is a tale hitherto un- 
told in the revolutionary war. 



lass. 

Note 9. 
W?dle trumpets rang, atid heralds cried, 
" Castile .'" — p. 170. 
The heralds, at the coronation of a Spanish 
monarch, proclaim his name three times, and 
repeat three times the word Castilla, Castilla, 
Castilla : which, with all other ceremonies, 
was carefully copied in the mock inauguration 
of Joseph Bonaparte. 

Note 10. 
High blazed the war, and long, and far, and 
wide. —P. 171. 
Those who were disposed to believe that 
mere virtue and energy are able of themselves 
to work forth the salvation of an oppressed 
people, surprised in a moment of confidence, 
deprived of their officers, armies, and for- 
tresses, who had every means of resistance to 
seek in the very moment when they were to be 
made use of, and whom the numerous treasons 
among the higher orders deprived of confidence 
in their natural leaders, — those whoeictertained I 
this enthusiastic but delusive opinion may be 



Note 11. 
They won not Zaragoza, but her children's 
bloody tomb. — P. 172. 

The interesting account of Mr. Vaughan has 
made most readers acquainted with the first 
siege of Zaragoza. The last and fatal siege of 
that gallant and devoted city is detailed with 
great eloquence and precision in the " Edin- 
burgh Annual Register" for 1809, — a work in 
which the aiTairs of Spain have been treated 
of with attention corresponding to their deep 
interest, and to the peculiar sources of informa- 
tion open to the historian. The following are 
a few brief extracts from this splendid historical 
narrative: — 

" A breach was soon made in the mud walls, 
and then, as in the former siege, the war was 



pardoned for expressin" their disappointment carried on in the streets and houses ; but the 
at the protracted warfare in the Peninsula. 1 French had been taught by experience, that 
There are, however, another class of persons, | in this species of warfare the Zaragozans de> 




^^1 





.24 



APPENDIX. 



rived a superiority from the feeling and prin- 
ciple which inspired them, and the cause for 
which they fought. The only means of con- 
quering Zaragoza was to destroy it house by 
house, and street by street ; and upon this 
system of destruction they proceeded. Three 
companies of miners, and eight companies of 
sappers, carried on this subterraneous war ; 
the Spaniards, it is said, attempted to oppose 
them by countermines ; these were operations 
to which they were wholly unused, and, ac- 
cording to the French statement, their miners 
were every day discovered and suffocated. 
Meantime, the bombardment was incessantly 
kept up. ' Within the last forty-eight hours.' 
said Palafox in a letter to his friend General 
Doyle, '6000 shells have been thrown in. Two- 
thirds of thj town are in rums, but we shall 
perish under the ruins of the remaining third 
rather than surrender.' In the course of the 
siege, above 17,000 bombs were thrown at the 
town ; the stock of powder with which Zaragoza 
had been stored was exhausted ; they had none 
at last but what they marufactured day by 
day ; and no other cannon-balls than those 
■which were shot into the town, and which they 
collected and fired back upon the enemy." 

In the midst of these horrors and privations, 
the pestilence broke out in Zaragoza. To 
various causes, enumerated by the annalist, he 
adds, "scantiness of food, crowded quarters, 
unusual exertion of body, anxiety of mind, and 
the impossibility of recruiting their exhausted 
strength by needful rest, in a city which was 
almost incessantly bombarded, and where every 
hour their sleep was broken by the tremendous 
explosion of mines. There was now no respite, 
either by day or night, for this devoted city ; 
even the natural order of light and darkness 
was destroyed in Zaragoza ; by day it was in 
volved in a red sulphureous atmosphere of 
smoke, which hid the face of heaven ; by night, 
the fire of cannons and mortars, and the flames 
of burning houses, kept it in a state of terrific 
illumination. 

"When once the pestilence had begun, it 
was impossible to check its progress, or confine 
it to one quarter of the city. Hospitals were 
immediately established, — there were above 
thirty of them ; as soon as one was destroyed 
by the bombardment, the patients were re- 
moved to another, and thus the infection was 
carried to every part of Zaragoza. Famine 
aggravated the evil ; the city had probably 
not been sufficiently provided at the com- 
mencement of the siege, and of the provisions 
which it contained, much was destroyed in the 
daily ruin which the mines and bombs had 
effected. Had the Zaragozans and their gar- 
rison proceeded according to military rules, 
they would have surrendered before the end 
of January ; their batteries had then been 
demolished, there were open breaches in many 
parts of Iheir weak walls, and the enemy were 
already within the city. On the 30th, ab:'Ve 
sixty houses were blown up, and the French 



obtained possession of the monasteries of the 
Augustines and Las Monicas, which adjoined 
each other, two of the last defensible places 
left. The enemy forced their way into the 
church ; every column, every chapel, every 
altar, became a point of defence, which was 
repeatedly attacked, taken, and retaken ; the 
pavement was covered with blood, the aisles 
and body of the church strewed with the dead, 
who were trampled under foot by the com- 
batants. In the midst of this conflict, the roof, 
shattered by repeated bombs, fell in ; the few 
who were not crushed, after a short pause, 
which this tremendous shock, and their own 
unexpected escape, occasioned, renewed the 
fight with rekindled fury ; fresh parties of the 
enemy poured in ; monks and citizens, and 
soldiers, came to the defence, and the contest 
was continued upon the ruins, and the bodies 
of the dead and the dying." 

Yet, seventeen days after sustaining these 
extremities, did the heroic inhabitants of Zara- 
goza continue their defence ; nor did they then 
surrender until their despair had extracted 
from the French generals a capitulation, more 
honorable than has been granted to fortresses 
of the first order. 

Who shall venture to refuse the Zaragozans 
the eulogium conferred upon them by the elo- 
quence of Wordsworth! — "Most gloriously 
have the citizens of Zaragoza proved that the 
true army of Spain, in a contest of this nature, 
is the whole people. The same city has also 
exemplified a melancholy, yea, a dismal truth, 
yet consolatory and full of joy, — that when a 
people are called suddenly to fight for their 
liberty, and are sorely pressed upon, their best 
field of battle is the floors upon which their 
children have played ; the chambers where 
the family of each man has slept, (his own or 
his neighbors' ;) upon or under the roofs by 
which they have been sheltei;ed ; in the gardens 
of their recreation ; in the street, or in the 
market-place ; before the altars of their temples, 
and among their congregated dwellings, b.'az- 
ing or uprooted. 

■' The government of Spain must never for- 
get Zaragoza fur a moment. Nothing is want- 
ing to produce the same effects everywhere, 
but a leading mind, such as that city was 
blessed with. In the latter contest this ha^ 
been proved ; for Zaragoza contained, at that 
time, bodies of men from almost all parts of 
Spain. The narrative of those two sieges 
should be the manual of every Spaniard. He 
may add to it the ancient stories of Numantia 
and Saguntum ; let him sleep upon the book 
as a pillow, and, if he be a devout adherent 
to the religion of his country, let him wear it 
in his bosom for his crucifix to rest upon." — 
Wordsworth 07i the Convent ioh of Cintra. 

Note 12. 
The Vault 0/ Destiny.— T?. 174. 
Before finally dismissing the enchanted 







THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 



625 



cavern of Don Roderick, it may be noticed, 
that the legend occurs in one of Calderon's 
plays, entitled La Virgin del Sagrario. The 
scene oi>ens with the noise of tlie chase, and 
Recisundo, a predecessor of Roderick upon 
the Gothic throne, enters pursuing a stag. 
The animal assumes the form of a man, and 
defies the King to enter the cave, which forms 
the bottom of the scene, and engage with him 
in single combat. Tlie King accepts the chal- 
lenge, and they engage accordingly, but with- 
out advantage on either side, which induces 
the Genie to inform Recisundn, that he is not 
the monarch for whom the adventure of the 
enchanted cavern is reserved, and he proceeds 
to predict the downfall of the Gothic monarchy, 
and of the Christian religion, which shall attend 
the discovery of its mysteries, Recisundo, 
appalled by these prophecies, orders the cavern 
to be secured by a gate and bolts of iron. In 
the second part of the same jjlay, we are in- 
formed that Don Roderick had removed the 
barrier, and transgressed the prohibition of his 
ancestor, and had been apprised by the prod- 
igies which he discovered of the approaching 
ruin of his kingdom. 

Note 13. 
IVhiU downward on the land his legions 
press, 
Before thent it was rich -with vine and flock, 
And smiled like Ede?i in her summer 
dress ; — 
Behind their wasteful tnarch, a reeking wil- 
derness. — P. 174. 
I have ventured to apply to the movements 
of the French army that sublime passage in the 
prophecies of Joel, which seems applicable to 
them in more respects than that I have adopted 
in the text. One would think their ravages, 
their military appointments, the terror which 
they spread among invaded nations, their 
military disciphne, their arts of political intrigue 
and deceit, were distinctly pointed out in the 
following verses of Scripture : — ■ 

" 2. A day of darknesse and of gloominesse, 
a day of clouds, and of thick darknesse, as the 
morning spread upon the mountains ; a great 
people and a strong, there hath not been ever 
the like, neither shall be any more after it, 
even to the yeares of many generations. 3. 
A fire devoureth before them, and behind them 
a flame burneth ; the land is as the garden of 
Eden before them, and behinde them a desolate 
wilderness, yea, and nothing shall escape them. 
4. Tlie appearance of them is as the appear- 
ance of horses ; and as horsemen, so shall they 
runne. 5. Like the noise of chariots on the 
tops of mountains, shall they leap, like the 
noise of a flame of fire that devoureth the 
stubble, as a strong people set in battel array. 
6. Before their face shall the people be much 
pained ; all faces shall gather blacknesse. 7. 
They shall run like mighty men, they shall 
climb the wall like men of warre, and they 



shall march every one in his wayes, and they 
shall not break their ranks. 8. Neither shall 
one thrust another, they shall walk every one 
in his path : and when they fall upon the sword, 
they shall not be wounded, g. They shall run 
to and fro in the citie ; they shall run upon the 
wall, they shall climbc up upon the houses: 
they shall enter in at the windows like a thief. 
10. The earth shall quake before them, the 
heavens shall tremble, the sunne and the moon 
shall be dark, and the starres shall withdraw 
their shining." 

In verse 20th also, which announces the re- 
treat of the northern army, described in such 
dreadful colors, into " a land barren and 
desolate," and the dishonor with which God 
afflicted them for having " magnified them- 
selves to do great things," there are particulars 
not inapplicable to the retreat of Massena ; — 
Divine Providence having, in all ages, attached 
disgrace as the natural punishment of cruelty 
and presumption. 

Note 14. 

The rudest sentinel, in Britain born, 

With horror paused to view the havoc 
done, 
Gave his poor crust to feed some "wretch for- 
lorn. — P. 175. 
Even the unexampled gallantry of the British 
army in the campaign of 1810 — 11, although 
they never fought but to conquer, will do them 
less honor in history than their humanity, 
attentive to soften to the utmost of their power 
the horrors which war, in its mildest aspect, 
must always inflict upon the defenceless in- 
habitants of the country in which it is waged, 
and which, on this occasion, were tenfold 
augmented by the barbarous cruelties of the 
French. Soup-kitchens were established by 
subscription among the officers, wherever the 
troops were quartered for any length of time. 
The commissaries contributed the heads, feet, 
&c., of the cattle slaughtered for the soldiery; 
rice, vegetables, and bread, where it could be 
had, were purchased by the officers. Fifty or 
sixty starving peasants were daily fed at one 
of these regimental establishments, and carried 
home the relics to their famished households. 
The emaciated wretches, who could not crawl 
from weakness, were speedily employed in 
pruning their vines. While pursuing Massena, 
the soldiers evinced the same spirit of humanity, 
and in many instances, when reduced them- 
selves to short allowance, from having out- 
marched their supplies, they shared their pit- 
tance with the starving inhabitants, who had 
ventured back to view the ruins of their habita- 
tions, burnt by the retreating enemy, and to 
bury the bodies of their relations whom they 
had butchered. Is it possible to know such 
facts without feeling a sort of confidence, that 
those who so well deserve victory are most 
likely to attain it?— It is not the least of Lord 
Wellington's military inerits, that the slightest 






626 



APFEA'DIX. 



disposition towards marauding meets immediate 
punishment. Independently of all moral obliga- 
tion, the army which is most orderly in a friendly 
country, has always proved most formidable to 
an armed enemy. 

Note 15. 
Vain-glorious fugitive ! — P. 175. 
The French conducted this memorable re 
treat with much of \!a& fan/aroiuiade proper to 
their country, by which they attempt to impose 
upon others, and perhaps on themselves, a 
belief that they are triumphing in the very 
moment of their discomfiture. On the 30th 
March, 181 1, their rear-guard was overtaken 
near Pega by the British cavalry. Being well 
posted, and conceiving themselves safe from 
infantry (who were indeed many miles in the 
rear), and from artillery, they indulged them- 
selves in parading their bands of music, and 
actually performed " God save the King." 
Their minstrelsy was, however, deranged by 
the undesired accompaniment of the British 
horse-artillery, on whose part in the concert 
they had not calculated. The surprise was 
sudden, and the rout complete ; for the artillery 
and cavalry did execution upon them for about 
four miles, pursuing at the gallop as often as 
they got beyond the range of the guns. 

Note 16. 

Vaiiily thy squadrons hide A ssuazia' s plain. 
And front the flying thunders as they roar, 
With frantic charge and tenfold odds, in 
vain I — P. 175. 

In the severe action of Fuentes d'Honoro, 
upon 5th May, iSii, tlie grand mass of the 
French cavalry attacked the right of the 
British position, covered by two guns of the 
horse-artillery, and two squadrons of cavalry. 
After suffering considerable from the fire of the 
guns, which annoyed them in every attempt at 
formation, the enemy turned their wrath en- 
tirely towards them, distributed brandy among 
their troopers, and advanced to carry the field- 
pieces with the desperation of drimken fury. 
They were in nowise checked by the heavy loss 
which they sustained in this daring attempt, 
but closed, and fairly mingled with the British 
cavalry, to whom they bore the proportion of 
ten to one. Captain Ramsay (let me be per- 
mitted to name a gallant countryman), who 
commanded the two guns, dismissed them at 
the gallop, and putting himself at the head of 
the mounted artillerymen, ordered tliem to fall 
upon the French, sabre-in-hand. This very 
unexpected conversion of artillerymen into 
dragoons, contributed greatly to the defeat of 
the enemy already disconcerted by the recep- 
tion they had met from the two British squad- 
rons ; and the appearance of some small re- 
inforcements, notwithstanding the immense 
disproportion of force, put them to absolute 
rout. A colonel or major of their cavalry, and 



many prisoners (almost all intoxicated), re- 
mained in our possession. Those who consider 
for a moment the difference of the services, and 
how much an artilleryman is necessarily and 
naturally led to identify his own safety and 
utility with abiding by the tremendous imple- 
ment of war, to the exercise of which he is 
chiefly, if not exclusively, trained, will know 
how to estimate the presence of mind which 
commanded so bold a manoeuvre, and the 
steadiness and confidence with which it was 
executed. 

Note 17. 
A nd what avails thee that, for Camerofi slain. 
Wild from his plaided ranks the yell was 
given— ^. 175. 

The gallant Colonel Cameron was wounded 
mortally during the desperate contest in the 
streets of the village called Fuentes d'Honoro. 
He fell at the head of his native Highlanders, 
the 71st and 79th, who raised a dreadful shriek 
of grief and rage. They charged with irresist- 
ible fury, the finest body of French Grenadiers 
ever seen, being a part of Bonaparte's selected 
guard. The officer who led the French, a man 
remarkable for stature and symmetry, was 
killed on the spot. The Frenchman who 
stepped out of his rank to take aim at Colonel 
Cameron was also bayoneted, pierced with a 
thousand wounds, and almost torn to pieces by 
the furious Highlanders, who, under the com- 
mand of Colonel Cadogan, bore the enemy out 
of the contested ground at the point of the 
bayonet. Massena pays my countrymen a 
singular compliment in his account of tlie attack 
and defence of this village, in which he says 
the British lost many officers, a^idScotch. 

Note 18. 
O who shall grudge him Albitera' s bays. 

Who brotight a race regenerate to the field. 
Roused them to emulate their fathers^ praise, 
J'ejnper' d their headlong rage, their CQ/ir' 
age steel' d, 
A }id raised fair Lusitania' s fallen shield. 

—P. 176. 

Nothing during the war of Portugal seems, 
to a distinct observer, more deserving of praise, 
than the self-devotion of Field-Marshal Beres- 
ford, who was contented to undertake all the 
hazard of obloquy which might have been 
founded upon any miscarriage in the highly 
important experiment of training the Portuguese 
troops to an improved state of discipline. In 
exposing his military reputation to the censure 
of imprudence from the most moderate, and all 
manner of unutterable calumnies from the 
ignorant and malignant, he placed at stake the 
dearest pledge which a military man had to 
offer, and nothing but the deepest conviction of 
the high and essential importance attached to 
success can be supposed an adequate motive. 
How great the chance of miscarriage was sup- 
posed, may be estimated from tlie general 





M 



ROKEBY. 



opinion of officers of unquestioned talents and 
experience, possessed of every opportunity ol 
information ; how completely the experiment 
has succeeded, and how much the spirit and 
patriotism of our ancient allies had been under- 
rated, is evident, not only from those victories 
in which they have borne a distinsuished share, 
but from the liberal and highly honorable 
manner in wliich these opinions have been re- 
tracted, Tlie success of this plan, with all its 
important consequences, we owe to the inde- 
fatigable exertions of Field-Marshal Beresford. 

Note 19. 

a race renoivn d of old. 

Whose -war-cry oft has waked the battle-swell. 

***** 
the conquering shon: 0/ Grceme. — P- i;7' 

This stanza alludes to the various achieve- 
ments of the warlike fainilv of Grsme, or Gra- 
hame. They are saia, by tradition, to have 




descended from the Scottish chief, under whose 
command his countrymen stormed the wall 
built by the Emperor Severus between the 
Friths of Forth and Clyde, the fragments of 
which are still popularly called Grsme's Dyke. 
Sir John the Graeme, "the hardy, wight, and 
wise," IS well known as the friend of Sir William 
Wallace. Alderne, Kilsythe, and Tibbermuir, 
were scenes of the victories of the heroic Mar- 
quis of Montrose. The pass of KiUycrankie is 
famous for the action between King William s 
forces and the Hij^hlanders in 1689, 
" Where glad Dundee in faint huzzas expired." 

It is seldom that one line can number so 
many heroes, and yet more rare when it can 
appeal to the glory of a living descendant in 
support of its ancient renown. 

The allusions to the private history and 
character of General Grahame may be illus- 
trated by referring to the eloquent and affect- 
ing speech of Mr. Sheridan, upon the vote of 
thanks to the Victors of Barossa. 



ROKEBY 



NOTB t4 

Oh Barnard's towers, and Tees' s stream,&'c. 
— P. 180, 

" Barnard's Castle." saith old Leland, 
<'standeth stately upon Tees." It is founded 
upon a very high bank, and its ruins impend 
over the river, including within the area a cir- 
cuit of six acres and upwards. This once mag- 
nificent fortress derives its name from its 
founder, Barnard Baliol, the ancestor of the 
short and unfortunate dynasty of that name, 
which succeeded to the Scottish throne under 
the patronage of Edward I. and Edward III. 
Baliol's Tower, afterwards mentioned in the 
poem, is a round tower of great size, situated 
at the western extremity of the building. It 
bears marks of great antiquity, and Was re- 
markable for the curious construction of its 
vaulted roof, which has been lately greatly 
injured by the operations of some persons, to 
"horn the tower has been leased for the purpose 
'){ making patent shot ! The prospect from the 
top of Baliol's Tower commands a nch and mag- 
nificent view of the wooded valley of the Tees. 

Note 2. 

no human ear, 

Unsharfien'd by revenge and /ear, 
Could e'er distinguish horse's clank. — P. 181. 
I have had occasion to remark, in real life, 
the effect of keen and fervent anxiety in giving 
acuteness to the organs of sense. My gifted 
friend, Miss Joanna Baillie, whose dramatic 
works display such intimate acquaintance with 



the operations of human passion.has not omitted 
this remarkable circumstance : — 

" De Mont/ori. (.Off his guard.) 'Tis Rezen- 

velt : I heard his well-known foot. 
From the first staircase mounting step by step. 
Freb. How quick an ear thou hast for dis- 
tant sound ! 
I heard hun not. 

{De Montfort looks embarrassed, and 
is silent.) " 

Note 3. 
The moriott's fibtmcs his visage hide, 
A nd the buff-coat, an ample fold. 
Mantles his for m' s gigantic mould. — P.iSr. 
The use of complete suits of armor was 
fallen into disuse during the Civil War, though 
they were still worn by leaders of rank and ini- 
portance. " In the reign of King James I.," 
I says our military antiquary, " no great altera- 
I tions were made in the article of defensive ar- 
i mor, except that the buff-coat, or jerkin, which 
was originally worn under the cuirass, now be- 
j came frequently a substitute for it, it having 
been found that a good buff leather would of 
Itself resist the stroke of a sword ; this, how- 
ever, only occasionally took place among the 
the light-armed cavalry and infantry, complete 
suits of armor being still used among the 
heavy-horse. Buff-coats continued to be worn 
by the city-trained bands till within the memory 
of persons now living, so that defensive armor 
may. in some measure, be said to have termi- 
nated in the same materials with which it be- 



^C3^; 





628 



APPENDIX. 



gan, that is, the skins of animals, or leather."— 
Grose's Military Antiquities. Lond. 1801, 
4to., vol. ii. p. 323. 

Of the buff-coats, which were worn over the 
corslets, several are yet preserved ; and Cap- 
tain Grose has given an engraving of one which 
was used in the time of Charles I. by Sir 
Francis Rhodes, Bart., of Balborough-Hali, 
Derbyshire. 

Note 4. 

On his dark face a scorching clime, 
A nd toil, had done the -work 0/ titne. 

* *■ * * * 

Death had he seen by sudden blow, 
By masting plague, by tortures slow. — P. 182. 
In this character, I have attempted to sketch 
one of those West Indian adventurers, who, 
during the course of the seventeenth century, 
were popularly known by the name of Bucan- 
eers. The successes of the English in tlie 
predatory incursions upon Spanish America, 
during the reign of Elizabeth, had never been 
forgotten ; and, from that period downward, 
the exploits of Drake and Raleigh were imi- 
tated, upon a smaller scale indeed, but with 
equally desperate valor, by small bands of 
pirates, gathered from all nations, but chiefly 
French and English. The engrossing policy of 
the Spaniards tended greatly to increase the 
number of these freebooters, from whom their 
commerce and colonies suffered, in the issue, 
dreadful calamity. 

NoTB 5. 

On Mar St on heath 

Met, front to front, the ranks of death 

—P. 182. 
The well-known and desperate battle of 
Long-Marston Moor, which terminated so un- 
fortunately for the cause of Charles, commenced 
under very different auspices. Prince Rupert 
had marched with an army of 20,000 men for 
the relief of York, then besieged by Sir Thomas 
Fairfax, at the head of the Parliamentary army, 
and the Earl of Leven, with the Scottish aux 
iliary forces. In this he so completely suc- 
ceeded, that he compelled the besiegers to re- 
treat to Marston Moor, a large open plain, 
about eight miles distant from the citv. Thither 
they were followed by the Prince, who had now 
united to his army the garrison of York, prob- 
ably not less than ten thousand men strong, 
under the gallant Marquis (then Earl) of New- 
castle. Whitelocke has recorded, with much 
impartiality, the following particulars of this 
eventful day : — " The right wing of the Parlia- 
ment was commanded by Sir Thomas Fairfax, 
and consisted of all his horse, and three regi- 
ments of the Scots horse ; the left wing was 
commanded by the Earl of Manchester and 
Colonel Cromwell. One body of their foot was 
commanded by Lord Fairfax, and consisted of 
his foot, and two brigades of the Scots foot for 



reserve ; and the main body of the rest of the 
foot was commanded by General Leven. 

" The right wing of the Prince's army was 
commanded by the Earl of Newcastle ; the ieft 
wing by the Prince himself ; and the main body 
by General Goring, Sir Charles Lucas, and 
Majur-General Porter Thus were both sides 
drawn up into battalia- 

" July 3d, 1644. In this posture both armies 
faced each other, and about seven o'clock in the 
morning the fight began between them. The 
Prince, with his left wing, fell on the Parlia- 
ment's right wing, routed them, and pursued 
them a great way ; the like did General Gor- 
ing, Lucas, and Porter, upon the Parliament's 
main body. The three generals, giving all 
for lost, hasted out of the field, and many 
of their soldiers fled, and threw down theif 
arms ; the King's forces too eagerly following 
them, the victory, now almost achieved by tnem, 
was again snatched out of their hands. For 
Colonel Cromwell, with the brave regiment of 
his countrymen, and -Sir Thomas Fairfax, hav- 
ing rallied some of his horse, fell upon the 
Prince's right wing, where the Earl of New- 
castle was, and routed them | and the rest of 
their companions rallying, they fell altogether 
upon the divided bodies of Rupert and Goring, 
and totally dispersed them, and obtained a 
complete victory, after three hours' fight. 

" From this battle and the pursuit, some 
reckon were buried 7000 Englishmen ; all agree 
that above 3000 of the Prince's men were slain 
in the battle, besides those in the chase, and 
3000 prisoners taken, many of their chief oflS- 
cers, twenty-five pieces of ordnance, forty-seven 
colors, 10,000 arms, two wagons of carabins 
and pistols, 130 barrels of powder, and all their 
bag and baggage." — Whitelocke's Memoirs, 
fol. p. 89. Lond. 1682. 

Note 6. 

Monckton a nd Milton told the news, 
How troops of R oujidhcads choked the Ouse, 
A nd many a bonnv Scot aghast. 
Spurring his palfrey northward, past, 
Cu7-sing the day ivhen zeal or meed 
First lured their Lesley o'er the Tweed. 

—P. 185. 
Monckton and Milton are villages near the 
river Ouse, and not very distant from the field 
of battle. The particulars of the action were 
violently disputed at the time ; but the follow- 
ing extract, from the Manuscript History of the 
Baronial House of Somerville, is decisive as to 
the flight of the Scottish general, the Earl of 
Leven. The details are given by the author 
of the history on the authority of his father, 
then the representative of the family. This 
curious manuscript was published by consent o£ 
Lord .Somerville. 

"The order of this great battell. wherin 
both armies was neer of ane equall number, 
consisting, to 'he best calculatione, neer to 
three score thousand men upon botli svdes, I 






ROKEBY. 



629 



shall not take upon n'e todiscryve ; albeit,, from 
the draughts then taken upon the place, and 
information I receaved from this gentieman, 
who being then a volunteer, as having no com- 
mand, had opportunitie and libertie to ryde 
from the one wing of the armie to the other, to 
view all ther several squadrons of horse and 
battallions of foot, how formed, and in what 
manner drawn up. with every other circum- 
stance relating to the fight, and that both as 
to the King's armies and that of the Parlia- 
ment's, amongst whom, untill the engadgment, 
he went from statione to statione to observe 
ther order and forme ; but that the descnptione 
of this battell, with the various success on both 
sides at the beginning, with the loss of the 
royal armie, and the sad effects that followed ] 
that misfortune as to his Majestie's interest, 
hes been so often done already by English 
authors, little to our commendatione, how justly 
I shall not dispute, seeing the truth is, as our 
principal general! fled that night neer fourtie 
tnylles from the place of the fight, that part of 
the armie where he commanded being totallie 
routed ; but it is as true, that much of the vic- 
tcrie is attributed to the good conduct of David 
Lesselie, hevetennent-general of our horse. 
Cromwell himself, that minione of fortune, but 
the rod of God's wrath, to punish eftirward three 
rebellious nations, disdained not to take orders 
from him, albeit then in the same qualitie of 
command for the Parliament, as being lieve- 
tennent-general to the Earl of Manchester's 
horse, whom, with the assistance of the Scots 
horse, haveing routed the Prince's right wing, 
as he had done that of the Parliament's. These 
two commanders of the horse upon that wing 
wisely restrained the great bodies of their horse 
from persuing these brocken troups, but, wheell- 
ing to the left-hand, falls in upon the naked 
flanks of the Prince's main battallion of foot, 
carrying them doune with great violence ; 
nether mett they with any great resistance un- 
till they came to the Marques of Newcastle his 
battallione of White Coats, who, first pepper- 
ing them soundly with ther shott, when they 
came to charge, stoutly bore them up with their 
picks that they could not enter to break them. 
Here the Parliament's horse of that wing re- 
ceaved ther greatest losse, and a stop for some- 
tyme putt to ther hoped-for victorie ; and that 
only by the stout resistance of this gallant bat- 
tallione, which consisted neer of four thousand 
foot, until at length a Scots regiment of dra- 
gouns, commanded by Collonell Frizeall, with 
other two, was brought to open them upon some 
hand, which at length they did, when all the 
animunitione was spent. Having refusedquar- 
ters, every man fell in the same order and ranke 
wherein he had foughten. 

" Be this execution was done, the Prince re- 
turned from the persuite of the right wing of 
the Parliament's horse, which he had beatten 
and followed too farre, to the losse of the bat- 
tell, which certanely, in all men's opinions, he 
might have caryed if he had not been too violent 



upon the pursuite ; which gave his enemies 
upon the left-hand opportunitie to disperse and 
cut doune his infaiurie, who, having cleared 
the field of all the standing bodies of foot, wer 
now, with many [foot soldiers] of their oune, 
standing ready to receave the charge of his 
allmost spent horses, if he should attempt it ; 
which the Prince observeing, and seeing all 
lost, he retreated to Yorke with two thousand 
horse. Notwithstanding of this, ther was that 
night such a consternatione in the Parliament 
armies, that it's believed by most of those that 
wer there present, that if the Prince, haveing 
so great a body of horse inteire, had made and 
onfall that night, or the ensueing morning be- 
tyme, he had carryed the victorie out of ther 
hands ; for it's certane by the morning's light, 
he had rallyed a body of ten thousand men, 
wherof ther was neer three thousand gallant 
horse. These, with the assistance of the toune 
and garrisoune of Yorke, might have done 
much to have recovered the victory, for the loss 
of this battell in effect lost the King and his in- 
terest in the three kingdomes ; his Majestie 
never being able eftir this to make head in the 
north, but lost his garrisons ever\' day. 

" As for Generall Lesselie, in the beginning 
of this flight haveing that part of the army quite 
brocken, whaie he had placed himself, by the 
valour of the Prince, he imagined, and was 
confermed by the opinione of others then upon 
the place with him, that the battell was irre- 
coverably lost, seeing they wer fleeing upon all 
hand ; theirfore they humbhe intreated his ex- 
cellence to reteir and wait his better fortune, 
which, without farder advyseing, he did ; and 
never drew bridle untill he came the lenth o£ 
Leads, having ridden all that night with a cloak 
of drap de herrie about him, belonging to this 
gentleman of whom I write, then in his retinue, 
with many other officers of good qualitie. It 
was neer twelve the next day befor they had 
the certanety who was master of the field, when 
at length ther arryvesane express, sent by David 
Lesselie, to acquaint the General they had ob- 
tained a most glorious victory, and that the 
Prince, with his brocken troupes, was fled from 
Yorke. This intelligence was somewhat amaze- 
ing to these gentlemen that had been eye-wit- 
nesses to the disorder of the armie before ther 
retearing, and had then accompanyed the 
General in his flight : who, being much wearyed 
that evening of the battel! with ordering of his 
armie, and now quite spent with his long jour- 
ney in the night, had casten himseife doune 
upon a bed to rest, when this gentleman come- 
ing quyetly into his chamber, he awoke, ar.d 
hastily cryes out, ' Lievetennent-colionell. what 
news ? ' — ' All is safe, may it please your Excel- 
lence ; the Parliament's armie hes obtained a 
great victory ;' and then delyvers the letter. 
The Generall, upon the hearing of this, knocked 
upon his breast, and sayes, ' 1 would to God I 
' had died upon the place 1 ' and then opens the 
: letter, which, in a few lines, gave ane account 
of the victor)!, and in the close pressed his 





y' 




630 



APPENP/X. 



speedy returne to the armie, whjcli 'le did the 
next day, being acconipanyed some myiles back 
by this gentleman, who llieii takes his leave of 
tiini, and receaved at parting many expressions 
of kyndeiiesse, with promises that he would 
never be unmyndful of his care and respect to- 
wards him ; and in the end he entreats liim to 
present his service to all his friends and ac- 
quaintances in Scotland. Thereftir the Generall 
sets forward in his journey for the armie, 

***** 
in order to his transportatione for Scotland, 
where he arryved sex dayes eftir the fight of 
Mestoune Muir, and gave the first true account 
and descriptione of that great bactell, wherein 
the Covenanters then gloryed see much, that 
they impiously boasted the Lord had now 
signally appeared for his cause and people ; it 
being ord'Viary for them, dureing the whole 
time of this warre, to attribute the greatness of 
their success to the goodness and justice of 
ther cause, untill Divine Justice trysted them 
with some crosse dispensatione, and then you 
might have heard this language from them, 
'That it i^leases the Lord to give his oune Uie 
heaviest end of the tree to bear, that the saints 
and the people of God must still be sufferers 
while they are here away, that the malignant 
party was God's rod to punish them for ther 
unthankfuUnesse, which in the end he will cast 
into the fire ; ' with a thousand other expres- 
sions and scripture citations, prophanely and 
blasphemously uttered by them to palliate ther 
villainie and rebellion." — Memoires of the 
Soniervilles. — Edin. 1815. 

Note 7. 

With hii barb'' d horse, ffesh tidings say. 
Stout Croniwcilhas redeem' d the day. — P. 185. 
Cromwell, with his regiment of cuirassiers, 
had a principal share in turning the fate of the 
day at Marston Moor ; which was equally mat- 
ter of triumph to the Independents, and of 
grief and heart-burning to the Presbyterians 
and to the Scottish. 

Note 8. 
Do not my native dales prolong. 
Of Percy Rede, the tragic song, 
Train' d forward to his bloody fall.^ 
By Girsonfield, tliat treacherous Hain 

—P. 185. 
In a poem, entitled, " The Lay of the Reed- 
water Minstrel," Newcastle, 1S09, this tale, 
with many others peculiar to the valley of the 
Reed, is commemorated : — " The particulars of 
the traditional story of Parcy Reed of Trough- 
end, and the Halls of Girsonfield, the author 
had from a descendant of the family of Reed. 
From his account, it appears that Percival 
Reed, Esquire, a kee]ier of Reedsdale, was be- 
trayed by the Halls (hence denominated the 
false-hearted Halls) to a band of moss-troopers 



of the name of Crosier, who s'ew him a1 
Batinghope, near the source of the Rijetl. 

" The Halls were, after the murder of Parcy 
Reed, held in such universal abhorrence and 
contempt by the inhabitants of Reedsdale, for 
their cowardly and treacherous behavior, that 
they were obliged to leave the country." In 
ap other passage, we are informed that the 
ghost of the injured Borderer is supposed to 
haunt the banks of a brook called the Prii> 
gle. These Reeds of Troughend were a very 
ancient family, as may be conjectured from 
their deriving their surname from the river on 
which they ha^ their mansion. An epitaph on 
one of their tombs affirms that the family held 
their lands of Troughend, which are situated on 
the Reed, nearly opposite to Otterburn, for the 
incredible space of nine hundred years. 

Note 9. 

A nd near the spot tliai gave me name, 
The moated mound of Risingliain, 
Where Reed upon her margin sees 
Siveet II 'oodburne's cottages and trees. 
Some ancient sculptor'' s art has shoivn 
An outlaw's image on the sto?ie. — P. 1S5. 
Risingham, upon the river Reed, near the 
beautiful hamlet of VVoodburn, is an ancient 
Roman station, formerly called Habitancum. 
Camden says, that in his time the popular ac- 
count bore, that it had been the abode of a 
deity, or giant, called Magon ; and appeals, in 
support of this tradition, as well as to the ety- 
mology of Risingham, or Reisenham, which 
signifies, in German, the habitation of the 
giants, to two Roman altars taken out of the 
river, inscribed, Deo Mogonti Cadenorum. 
About half a mile distant from Risingham. upon 
an eminence covered with scattered birch-trees, 
and fragments of rock, there is cut upon a large 
rock, in alto relievo, a remarkable figure, called 
Robin of Risingham, or Robin of Reedsdale. 
It presents a hunter, with his bow raised in one 
hand, and in the other what seems to be a hare. 
There is a quiver at the back of the figure, and 
he is dressed in a long coat, or kirtle, coming 
down to the knees, and meeting close, with a 
girdle bound round him. Dr. Horseley, who 
saw all monuments of antiquity with Roman 
eyes, inclines to think this figure a Roman 
archer : and certainly the bow is rather of the 
ancient size, than of that which was so formid- 
able in the hand of the English archers of the 
Middle Ages. But the rudeness of the whole 
figure prevents our founding strongly upon 
mere inaccuracy of proportion. The popular 
tradition is, that it represents a giant, whose 
brother resided at Woodburn, and he himself at 
Risingham. It adds, that they subsisted by 
hunting, and that one of them, finding the 
game become too scarce to support them, 
poisoned his companion, in whose memory the 
monument was engraved. What strange and 
tragic circumstance may be concealed unde>- 




2— t- 






ROKEB Y. 



631 



this legend, or whether it is utterly apocryphal, 
it is now impossible to discover. 

Note 10. 

Do thou revere 

The statutes 0/ Die Bucanier. — P. 1S5. 

The "statutes of the Bucaniers " were, in 
reality, more equitable than cou d have been 
expected from the state of society under which 
they had been formed. They chiefly related, 
as may readily be conjectured, tn the distribu- 
tion and the inheritance of tlieir plunder. 

When the expedition was completed, the fund 
of prize-money acquired was thrown together, 
each party talcing his oath that he had retained 
or concealed no part of the common stock. If any 
one transgressed in this important particular, 
the punishment was, his being set ashore on 
some desert key or island, to shift for himself 
as he could. The owners of the vessel had 
then their share assigned for the expenses of 
the outfit. These were generally old pirates, 
settled at Tobago, Jamaica, St. Domingo, 01 
some other French or English settlement. The 
surgeon's and carpenter's salaries, with the 
price of provisions and ammunition, were also 
defrayed. Then followed the compensation 
due to the maimed and wounded, rated ac- 
cording to the damage they had sustained ; 
as six hundred pieces of eight, or six slaves, 
for the loss of an arm or leg, and so in pro- 
portion. 

" After this act of justice and humanity, the 
remainder of the booty was divided into as 
many shares as there were Buccaneers. The 
commander could only Jay claim to a single 
share, as the rest ; but they complimented him 
with two or three in proportion as he had ac- 
quitted himself to their satisfaction. When the 
vessel was not the property of the whole com- 
pany, the persons who had fitted it out, and 
furnished it with necessary arms and ammuni- 
tion, were entitled to a third of all the prizes. 
Favor had never any influence in the division 
of the booty, for every share was determined 
by lot. Instances of such rigid justice as this 
are not easily met with, and they extended 
even to the dead. Their share was given to 
tlie man who was known to be their companion 
when alive, and therefore their heir. If the 
person who had been killed had no intimate, 
his part was sent to his relations, when they 
were known. If there were no friends nor 
relations, it was distributed in charity to the 
poor and to churches, which were to pray for 
•he person in whose name these benefactions 
were given, the fruits of inhuman, but neces- 
sary piratical plunder." — Rvnai.'s History 
of European Settlements in the East and 
IVest Indies., by yustatnond. Lond. 1776, Svo,, 
lii. 1.. ^r. 



Note 11. 

The course of Tees. — P. 188. 

The view from Barnard Castle commands 
the rich and magnificent valley of Tees. Im- 
mediately adjacent to the river, the banks 
are very thickly wooded ; at a little distance 
they are more open and cultivated ; but, being 
interspersed with hedge-rows, and with iso- 
lated trees of great size and age, they still re- 
tain the richness of woodland scenery. The 
river itself flows in a deep trench of solid 
rock, chiefly limestone and marble. The finest 
view of its romantic course is from a handsome 
modern-built bridse over the Tees, by the late 
Mr, Morritt of Rokeby. In Leland's time, 
the marble quarries seem to have been of 
some value. " Hard under the cliff by Eglis- 
ton, is found on eche side of Tese very fair 
marble, wont to be taken up booth by mar- 
belers 01 Barnardes Castelle and of Egliston, 
and partly to have been wrought by them, 
and part.y sold onwrought to others." — Ititier- 
ar'y. Oxford, 176S, Svo., p. 88. 

Note 12. 
Eglistoiis gray ruins. — P. 189. 
The ruins of this abbey, or priory, (for Tan- 
ner calls it the former, and Leland the latter,) 
are beautifully situated upon the angle formed 
by a little dell called Thorsgill, at its junction 
with the Tees. 

Note 13. 

the mound, 

Raised by that Legion long renoivi^d, 
Whose votive shrine asserts their claim., 
Of pious, fa ithfuL conquering fa me. 

—P. 189. 
Close behind the George Inn at Greta Bridge, 
there is a well preserved Roman encampment, 
surrounded with a triple ditch, lying between 
the river Greta and a brook called the Tutta. 
The four entrances are easily to be discerned. 
Very many Roman altars and monuments 
have been found in the vicinity, most of which 
are preserved at Rokeby by my friend Mr 
Morritt. * 

Note 14. 

Rokeby' s turrets high. — P. 189. 

This ancient manor long gave name to a 
family by wlom it is said to have been pos- 
sessed from the Conquest downward, and who 
are at different times distinguished in history. 
It was the Baron of Rokeby who finally de- 
feated the insurrection of the Earl of North- 
umberland, te7npore Hen. IV. The Rokeby, 
or Rokesby, family continued to be distin- 
guished until the great Civil War, when, hav- 
ing embraced the cause of Charles I., they suf- 
fered severely by fines and confiscations. The 
estate then passed from its ancient possessors 
to the family of the Robinsons, from whom i' 




A 



w 



M 



V' 



1—5 




632 



APPENDIX 



was purchased by the father of my valued friend, 
the present proprietor. 

Note 15. 
A stern and lone, yet lovely road. 
As e'er the foot 0/ Zlinstrel trade. 

—P. 189. 
What follows is an attempt to describe the 
romantic glen, or rather ravine, through which 
the Greta finds a passage between Rokeby and 
Morthara ; the former situated upon the left 
bank of Greta, the latter on the right bank, 
about half a mile nearer to its junction with the 
Tees» 

Note 16. 

tell 

« # * * * 

H01U whistle rash bids tempests roar. 

—P. 190. 
That this is a general superstition is well 
known to all who have been on ship-board, or 
who have conversed with seamen. The most 
formidable whistler that I remember to have 
met with was the apparition of a certain Mrs. 
Leakey, who, about 1636, resided, we are told, 
at Mynehead, in Somerset, where her only 
son drove a considerable trade between that 
port and Waterford, and was owner of several 
vessels. This old gentlewoman was of a social 
disposition, and so acceptable to her friends, 
that they used to say to her and to each other, 
it were a pity such an excellent good-natured 
old lady should die ; to which she was wont to 
reply, that whatever pleasure they might find 
in her company just now, they would not greatly 
like to see or converse with her after death, which 
nevertheless she was apt to think might hap- 
pen. Accordingly, after her death and funeral, 
she began to appear to various persons by night 
and by noonday, in her own house, in the town 
and fields, at sea and upon shore. So far had 
she departed from her former urbanity, that 
she is recorded to have kicked a doctor of 
medicine for his impolite negligence in omit- 
ting to hand her over a stile. It was also her 
humor to appear upon the quay, and call for 
a boat. But especially as soon as any of her 
son's ships approached the harbor, '' this 
ghost would appear in the same garb and like- 
ness as when she was alive, and, standing at 
the mainmast, would blow with a whistle, and 
though it were never so great a calm, yet im- 
mediately there would arise a most dreadful 
storm, that would break, wreck, and drown 
ship and goods." When she had thus pro- 
ceeded until her son had neither cash to 
freight a vessel, nor could have procured men 
to sail in it, she began to attack the persons of 
his family, and actually strangled their only 
child in the cradle. The rest of her story, 
showing how the sceptre looked over the 
shoulder of her daughter-in-law, while dress- 
ing her hair in the lookuig-glass, and ho v Mrs. 
Leakey the younger took courage to address 



her, and how the beldame despatches her to 
an Irisli prelate, famous for his crimes and mis- 
fortunes, to exhort him to repentance, and to 
apprize him that otherwise he would be hanged, 
and how the bishop was satisfied with replying 
that if he was born to be hanged, he should 
not be drowned ; — all these, witli many more 
particulars, may be found at the end of one of 
John Dunton's publications, called Athenian- 
ism, London, 1710, where the tale is engrossed 
under the title of The Apparition Evidence. 

NoTB 17. 

Of Erich's cap and Elmo' s ligJii. — P. 190. 

"This Ericus, King of Sweden, in his timq 
was held second to none in the magical art ; 
and he was so familiar with the evil spirits, 
which he exceedingly adored, that which way-' 
soever he turned his cap, the wind would pres- 
ently blow that way. From this occasion he 
was called Windy Cap ; and many men be- 
lieved that Regnerus, King of Denmark, by 
the conduct of this Ericus, who was his nephew, 
did happily extend his piracy into the most re- 
mote parts of the earth, and conquered n.any 
countries and fenced cities by his cunning, and 
at last was his coadjutor ; that by the consent 
of the nobles, he should be chosen King of 
Sweden, which continued a long time with him 
very hapily, until he died of old age." — Olaus, 
ut supra, p . 40. 

Note 18, 

The De^non frigate. — P. 190. 

This is an allusion to a well-known nautical 
superstition concerning a fantastic vessel, called 
by sailors the Flying Dutchman, and supposed 
to be seen about the latitude of tlie Cape of 
Good Hope. She is distinguished from earthly 
vessels by bearing a press of sail when all 
others are unable, from stress of weather, to 
show an inch of canvas. The cause of her 
wandering is not altogether certain ; but the 
general account is, that she was originally a 
vessel loaded with great wealth, on board of 
which some horrid act of murder and piracy 
had been committed ; that the plague broke 
out among the wicked crew who had perpe- 
trated the crime, and that they sailed in vain 
from port to port, offering, as the price of 
shelter, the whole of their ill-gotten wealth ; 
that they were excluded from every harbor, 
for fear of the contagion which was devouring 
them ; and that, as a punishment of their 
crimes, the apparition of tiie ship still con- 
tinues to haunt those seas in which the catas- 
trophe took place, and is considered by the 
mariners as the worst of all possible omens. 

Note 19. 

by so»te desert isle or key. — P. i<^i. 

What contributed much to the security of the 
Buccaneers about theWmdward Islands. was the 





M 



V 




ROKEBY. 



633 



great number of little islets, called in that 
country keys. These are small sandy patches, 
appearing just above the surface of the ocean, 
covered only with a few bushes and weeds, but 
sometimes affording springs of water, and, in 
general, much frequented by turtle. Such little 
uninhabited spots afforded the pirates good 
harbors, either for refitting or for the purpose 
of ambush ; they were occasionally the hiding- 
place of their treasure, and often afforded a 
shelter to themselves. As many of the atroci- 
ties which they practised on their prisoners were 
committed in such spots, there are some of these 
keys which even now have an indifferent repu- 
tation among seamen, and where they are with 
difficulty prevailed on to remain ashore at night, 
on account of the visionary terrors incident to 
places which have been thus contaminated. 

Note 20. 
Before the gate of lilorthani stood. — P. 191. 

The castle of Mortham, which Leland terms 
" Mr. Rokesby's Place, in rifia citer., scant a 
quarter of a mile from Greta Bridge, and not a 
quarter of a mile beneath mto Tees," is a pic- 
turesque tnwer, surrounded by buildings of 
different ages, now converted into a farm-house 
and offices. 

The situation is eminently beautiful, occupy- 
ing a high bank, at the bottom of wliich the 
Greta winds out of the dark, narrow, and ro- 
mantic dell, which the text has attempted to 
describe, and flows onward through a more open 
valley to meet the Tees about a quarter of a 
mile from the castle. Mortham is surrounded 
by old trees, happily and widely grouped with 
Mr. Morritt's new plantations. 

Note 21. 

There dig, and tomb your precious heap, 
A nd bid the dead your treasure kee ■*. 

-P. .92. 

If time did not permit the Buccaneers to lavish 
away their plunder in their usual debaucheries, 
they were wont to hide it, with many supersti- 
tious solemnities, in the desert islands and keys 
which they frequented, and where much treas- 
ure, whose lawless owners perished without 
reclaiming it, is stiil supposed to be concealed. 
The most cruel of mankind are often the most 
superstitious ; and these pirates are said to have 
had recourse to a horrid ritual, in order to se- 
cure an unearthly guardian to their treasures. 
They killed a negro or Spaniard, and buried 
him with tha treasure, believing that his spirit 
would liaunt the spot, and terrify p.way all in- 
truders. I c:\nnot produce any other authority 
on which tliis custom is ascribed to them than 
that of maritime tradition, which is, however, 
amply sufficient for the purposes of poetry. 



Note 22. 
The power * » # 

* * * * * 

That unsubdiied and lurking lies 

To take the felon by surprise, 

A nd force him, as by magic spell, 

In his desj)ite his guilt to tell. — P. 192. 

All who are conversar.t with the administia- 
tion of criminal justice, must remember many 
occasions in which malefactors appear to have 
conducted themselves with a species of infatua- 
tion, either by making unnecessary confidences 
respecting their guilt, or by sudden and in. 
voluntary allusions to circumstances by which 
it could not fail to be exposed. A remarkable 
instance occurred in the celebrated case of 
Eugene Aram. A skeleton being found near 
Knaretborough, was supposed, by the persons 
who gathered around the spot, to be the re- 
mains of one Clarke, who had disappeared 
some years before, under circumstances leading 
to a suspicion of his having been murdered. 
One Houseman, who had mingled in the crowd, 
suddenly said, while looking at the skeleton, 
and hearing the opinion which was buzzed 
around, " That is no more Dan Clarke's bone 
than it is mine ! " — a sentiment expressed so pos- 
itively, and with such peculiarity of manner, as 
to lead all who heard liim to infer that he must 
necessarily know where the real body had been 
interred. Accordingly, being apprehended, he 
confessed having assisted Eugene Aram to 
murder Clarke, and to hide his body in Saint 
Robert's Cave. It happened to the author 
himself, while conversing with a person accused 
of an atrocious crime, for the purpose of render- 
ing him professional assistance upon his trial, to 
hear the prisoner, after the most solemn and 
reiterated protestations that he was guiltless, 
suddenly, and, as it were, involuntarily, in the 
course of his communications, make such an 
admission as was altogether incompatible with 
innocence. 

Note 23. 

Br ackejibury'' s dismal tower . — P. 194. 

This tower has been already mentioned. It 
is situated near the north-eastern extremity of 
the wail which encloses Barnard Castle, and it 
traditionally said to have been the prison. Bj, 
an odd coincidence, it bears a name which we 
naturally connect with imprisonment, from its 
being that of Sir Robert Brackenbury, lieuten- 
ant of the Tow^'r of London under Edward IV 
and Richard ill. 

Note 24. 

Nobles and knights, so proi'd of late, 

Musi fine for freedom and estate. 

* * * * # 

Right heavy shall his ransom be, 
Unless that maid cojnpotend with thee 

-f 195 

After the battle of Marston Morr. the Earl 

of Newcastle retired beyond sea in disgust and 






'h 



634 



APPENDIX. 



many of his followers laid down their arms, and 
made the best composition they could with the 
Committees of Parliament. Fines were im- 
posed upon them in proportion to their estates 
and degrees of delinquency, and these fines 
were often bestowed upon such persons as had 
deserved well of the Commons. In some cir- 
cumstances it happened, that the oppressed 
cavaliers were fain to form family alliances 
with some powerful person among the triumph- 
ant party. 

Note 25. 
The Indian, prowling for his prey, 
IVho hears the settlers track his way. 

-P- 195- 
The patience, abstinence, and ingenuity ex- 
erted by the North-American Indians, when in 
pursuit of plunder or vengeance, is the most 
distinguished feature in their character ; and 
the activity and address which they display in 
their retreat is equally surprising. 

Note 26. 
In Redesdale his youth had heard, 
Each art her ivily dalesmen dared, 
When Rooke7i-edge, and Redswair high. 
To bugle rnng and bloodhoitnd' s cry. 

-P. 195. 
" What manner of cattle-stealers they are tnat 
inhabit these valleys in the marches of both 
kingdoms, John Lesley, a Scotche man himself, 
and Bishop of Ross, will inform you. They 
sally out of their own borders in the night, in 
troops, through unfrequented by-ways and 
many intricate windings. All the day-time 
they refresh themselves and their horses in 
lurking holes tliey had pitched upon before, 
till they arrive in the dark in those places they 
have a design ujjon. As soon as they have 
seized upon the booty, they, in like manner, 
return home in the night, through blind ways, 
and fetching many a compass. The more skil- 
ful any captain is to pass through those wild 
deserts, crooked turnings, and deep precipices, 
in the thickest mists, his reputation is the 
greater, and he is looked upon as a man of an 
excellent head. And they are so very cunning, 
that they seldom* have their booty taken from 
them, unless sometimes when, by the help of 
blood-hounds following them exactly upon the 
track, they may chance to fall into the hands of 
their adversaries. When being taken, they 
have so much persuasive eloquence, and so 
many smooth insinuating words at command, 
that if they do not move their judges, nay, and 
even their adversaries (notwithstanding the 
severity of their natures), to have mercy, yet 
they incite them to admiration and compas- 
sion." — Camden's Britannia. 

The inhabitants of the valleys of Tyne and 
Reed were, in ancient times, so inordinately 
addicted to these depredations, that in 1564, 
the Incorporated Merchant-adventurers of 
Newcastle made a law that none born in these 



districts should be admitted apprentice. The 
inhabitants are stated to be so generally addicted 
to rapine, that no faith should be reposed in 
those proceeding from " such lewde and wicked 
progenitors." This regulation continued to 
stand unrepealed until 1771. A beggar, in an 
old play, describes himself as "born in Redes- 
dale, in Northumberland, and come of a wight- 
riding surname, called the Robsons, good honest 
men and true, saving a little shi/ting/or their 
living, God help thetn ! " — a description which 
would have applied to most Borderers on belli 
sides. 

Reidswair, famed for a skirmish to which ;t 
gives name, [see Border Minstrelsy, vol. ii. p. 
15,] is on the very edge of the Carter fell, which 
divides England from Scotland. The Ro<jken 
is a place upon Reedwater. Bertram, being 
described as a native of these dales, where the 
habits of hostile depredation long survived the 
union of the crowns, may have been, in some 
degree, prepared by education for the exercise 
of a similar trade in the wars of the Buccaneers. 

Note 27. 

Hiding his face, lestfoemen spy. 

The sparkle 0/ his swarthy eye. — P. 196. 

After one of the recent battles, in which the 
Irish rebels were defeated, one of their most 
active leaders was found in a bog, in which he 
was immersed up to the shoulders, while his 
head was concealed by an impending ledge of 
turf. Being detected and seized, notwithstand- 
ing his precaution, he became solicitous to know 
how his retreat had been discovered. " I 
caught," answered the Sutherland Highlander, 
by whom he was taken, " the sparkle of your 
eye." Those who are accustomed to mark 
hares upon their form usually discover them by 
the same circumstance. 

Note 28. 
Here stood a wretch, prepared to change 
His sour s redemption/or revenge. — -P. 197. 
It is agreed by all the writers upon magic 
and witchcraft, that revenge was the most com- 
mon motive for the pretended compact between 
Satan and his vassals. 

Note 29. 
Of tny inarauding on the clowns. 
Of Calverley and Bradford downs. 

-P. 197. 
The troops of the King, when they first took 
the field, were as well disciplined as could be 
expected from circumstances. But as the cir- 
cumstances of Charles became less favorable, 
and his funds for regularly paying his forces 
decreased, habits of military license prevailed 
among them in greater excess. Lacy tht 
player, who served his master during the Civil 
War, brought out, after the Rescoration, apiece 
called The Old Troop, in which he seems to 





^ 




KOKEB Y. 



635 



have commemorated some real incidents which 
occurred in his military career. The names of 
the officers of the Troop sufficiently express 
their habits. We have Fleattint Plunder- 
master-General, Captain Ferret -farm, and 
Quarter-master Burn-drop. The officers of 
the Troop are in league with these worthies, 
and connive at their plundering the country for 
a suitable share in the booty. All this was 
undoubtedly drawn from the life, which Lacy 
had an opportunity to study. The moral of the 
whole is comprehended in a rebuke given to the 
lieutenant, whose disorders in the country are 
said to prejudice the King's cause more than 
his courage in the field could recompense. The 
piece is by no means void of farcical humor. 

NoTF 30. 

BrignalFs woods, and ScargilPs, wave, 

E'e7i now, o'er many a sister cave. — P. 198. 
The banks of the Greta, below Rutherford 
Bridge, abound in seams of grayish slate, wlixh 
are wrought in some places to a very great 
depth, under ground, thus forming artificial 
caverns, which, when the seam has been ex- 
hausted, are gradually hidden by the underwood 
which grows in profusion upon the romantic 
banks of the river. In times of public con- 
fusion, they might be well adapted to the pur- 
poses of banditti. 

Note 31. 

When Spain zvagedwar/are with our land. 

— P. 200. 

There was a short war with Spain in 1625-6, 
which will be found to agree pretty well with 
the chronology of the poem. But probably 
Bertram held an opinion very common among 
the maritime heroes of the age, that, " there 
was no peace beyond the Line." The Spanish 
guarda-cosias were constantly employed in 
aggressions upon the trade and settlements of 
the English and French ; and, by their own 
severities, gave room for the system of Bucca- 
neering, at'fivst adopted in self-defence and re- 
taliation, and afterwards persevered m from 
habit and thirst of plunder. 

Note 32. 
our comrades'' sirije. — P. 200. 

The laws of the Buccaneers, and their succes- 
sors the Pirates, however severe and equitable, 
were, like other laws, often set aside by the 
stronger party. Their quarrels about the divi- 
sion of the spoil fill their history, and they as 
frequently arose out of mere frolic, or the ty- 
rannical humor of their chiefs. An anecdote 
of Teach (called Blackbeard), shows that their 
habitual indifference for human life extended to 
their companions, as well as their enemies and 
captives. ... . • • \. 

" One night, drinking in his cabm with 
Hands, the pilot, and another man, Black- 



beard, without any provocation, privately draws 
out a small pair of pistols, and cocks them 
under the table, which being perceived by the 
man, he withdrew upon deck, leaving Hands, 
the pilot, and the captain together. When the 
pistols were ready, he blew out the candles, 
and, crossing his hands, discharged them at his 
company. Hands, the master, was shot through 
the knee, and lamed for life : the other pistol 
did no execution." — Johnson's History oj 
Pirates. Loud. 1733, 8vo., vol. i. p. 38. 

Note 33. 

Song. — A dieii for evermore.— P. 202. 

The last verse of this song is taken from the 
fragment of an old Scottish ballad, of which 
I only recollected two verses when the first 
edition of Rokeby was published. Mr. Thomas 
Sheridan kindly pointed out to me an entire 
copy of this beautiful song, which seems to ex- 
press the fortunes of some followers of the 
Stuart family : — 

" It was a' for our rightful king 
That we left fair Scotland's strand. 
It was a' for our rightful king 
That we e'er saw Irish land, 

My dear, 
That we e'er saw Irish land. 

" Now all is done that nian can do 
And all is done in vain ! 
My love ! my native land, adieul 
For I must cross the main. 

My dear. 
For I must cross the main. 

" He turned him round and right about, 
All on the Irish shore. 
He gave his bridle-reins a shake. 
With, Adieu for evermore. 

My dear! 
Adieu for evermore ! 

" The soldier frae the war returns, 
And the merchant frae the main, 
But I hae parted wi' my love. 
And ne'er to meet again, 

My dear, 
And ne'er to meet again. 

" When day is gone and night is come. 
And a' -.re boun' to sleep, 
I think on them that's far awa 
The lee-lang night, and weep. 
My dear. 
The lee-lang niglit, and weep." 

Nute 34. 
Rere-cross oh Siaiimore. —P. 202. 
This is a fragment of an old cross, with its 
pediment, surrounded bv an iiitrenchment, upon 
the very summit of the waste ridge of Stan- 
more, near a small house uf entertainment. The 
situation of the cross, and the pains taken tn 




w 




^^tfex 



636 



APPENDIX. 



defend it, seem to indicate that it was intended 
for a landmark of importance. 

Note 35. 

Hast ihoii lodged our deer ? — P. 202. 

The duty of the ranger, or pricker, was first 
to lodge or harbor the deer ; »'. e. to discover 
his retreat, and then to make his report to liis 
prince or master. 

Note 36. 

When Denmark's raven soared on high, 
Triumphant through Northumbrian sky. 
Till, hovering near. Iter fatal croak 
Bade Reged's Brito?is dread tJie yoke- 

—P. 203. 

About the year of God S66, the Danes, under 
their celebrated leaders Inguar (more properly 
Agnar) and Hiibba, sons, it is said, of the still 
more celebrated Regnar Lodbrog, invaded 
Northumberland, bringing with them the mag- 
ical standard, so often mentioned in poetry, 
called Reafen, or Rumfan, from its bearing 
the figure of a raven : — 

''Wrought by the sisters of the Danish king, 
Of furious Ivar in a midnight hour: 
While the sick moon at their enchanted song 
Wrapt in pale tempest, labor'd through the 

clouds, 
The demons of destruction then, they say. 
Were all abroad, and mixing with the woof 
Their baleful power : The sisters ever sung, 
' Shake, standard, shake this ruin on our 

foes.' " 

Thomson and Mallet's Alfred. 

The Danes renewed and extended their in- 
cursions, and began to colonize, establishing a 
kind of capital at 'ifork, from which they spread 
their conquests and nicursions in every direc- 
tion. Stanmore, which divides the mountains 
of Westmoreland and Cumberland, was proba- 
bly the boundary of ihe Danish kingdom in 
that direction. The district to the west, known 
in ancient British history by the name of 
Reged, had never been conquered by the 
Saxons, and continued to maintain a precarious 
mdependence until it was ceded to Malcolm, 
King of Scots, by William the Conqueror, prob- 
ably on account of its similarity in language 
and manners to the neighboring British king- 
dom of Strath-Clyde. 

Upon the extent and duration of the Danish 
sovereignty ni Northumberland, the curious 
may consult the various authorities quoted in 
the Gesta et Vestigia Datiorum extra Dan- 
iam, tom. ii. p. 40. The most powerful of 
their Northumbrian leaders seems to have been 
Ivar, called, from the extent of his conquests, 
IVidfam, that is, The Strider. 



Note 37. 

Beneath the shade the Northmen came, 
Fix'd on each vale a Runic name. — P. 20^. 

The heathen Danes have left several traces 
of their religion in the upper part of Teesdale. 
Balder-garth, which derives its name from the 
unfortunate son of Odin, is a tract of waste 
land, on the very ridge of Stanmore ; and a 
brook, which falls mto the Tees near Barnard 
Castle, is named after the same deity. A field 
upon the banks of the Tees is also termed 
Wooden-Croft, from the supreme deity of the 
Edda. 

Note 38. 

Who luis not heard ho-zv brave O'Neale 

In English blood imbrued his steel? — P. 204. 

The O'Neale here meant, for more than one 
succeeded to the chieftainship during the reign 
of Elizabeth, was Hugh, the grandson of Con 
O'Neale, called Con Bacco, or the Lame. His 
father, i\Iatthew O' Kelly, was illegitimate, and, 
being the son of a blacksmith's wife, was 
usually called Matthew the blacksmith. His 
father, nevertheless, destmed his succession to 
him ; and he was created, by Elizabeth, Baron 
of Dungannon. Upon the death of Con Bacco. 
this Matthew was slain by his brother. Hugh 
narrowly escaped the same fate, and was pro- 
tected by the English. Shane O'Neale, his 
uncle, called Shane Dymas, was succeeded by 
Turlough Lynogh O'Neale ; after whose death 
Hugh, having assumed the chieftainship, be- 
came nearly as formidable to the English as 
any by whom it had been possessed. He re- 
belled repeatedly, and as often made submis- 
sions, of which it was usually a condition that 
he should not any longer assume the title of 
O'Neale ; in lieu of which he was created Earl 
of Tyrone. But this condition he never ob- 
served longer than until the pressure of superior 
force was withdrawn. His baffling the gallant 
Earl of Essex in the field, and over-reaching 
him in a treaty, was the induction to that noble- 
man's tragedy. Lord Mountjoy succeeded in 
finally subjugating O'Neale; but it was not till 
the succession of James, to whom he made 
personal submission, and was received with 
civility at court. 

Note 39, 

But chief arose his victor pride. 

When that brave Marshal fought and died. 
—P. 204. 

The chief victory which Tyrone obtained 
over the English was in a battle fought near 
Blackwater. while he besieged a fort garrisoned 
by the English, which commanded the passes 
into his country. 

Tyrone is said to have entertained a per- 
sonal animosity against the knight-marshal, Sir 
Henry Bagnal, whom he accused of detaining 
the letters which he sent to Queen Elizabeth. 







ROKEBY. 



637 



explanatory of his conduct, and offering terms 
of submission. The river, called by the Eng- 
lish, Blackwater, is termed in Iristi, Avon-Diif?, 
which has the same signification. Both names 
are mentioned by Spenser in his " Marriage of 
the IMiames and tlie Medway." But I under- 
stand tliat his verses relate not to the Black- 
water of Ulster, but to a river of the sain= name 
In the south of Ireland , — 

' Swift Avon-Duff, which of the Englishmen 
Is called Blackwater."' 

Note 40. 
The Tanisi he io great OWeale.—V. 204. 

" Eudox. What \s that which you call Tanist 
and Tanistry ? These be names and terms nerer 
heard of nor known to us. 

" Iren. It is a custom amongst all the Irish, 
that presently after the death of one of their 
chiefe lords or captaines, they doe presently 
assemble themselves to a place generally ap- 
pointed and knowne unto them, to choose 
another in his stead, where they do nominate 
and elect, for the most pari not the eldest sonne, 
nor any of the children of the lord deceased, 
but the next to him in blood, that is, the eldest 
and worthiest, as commonly the next brother 
unto him, if he have any, or the next cousin, or 
so forth, as any is elder in that kindred or sept ; 
and then next to them doe they choose the next 
of the blood to be Tanist, who shall next suc- 
ceed him in the said captainry, if he live there- 
unto. 

" Eudox, Do they not use any ceremony in 
this election, for all barbarous nations are com- 
monly great observers of ceremonies and super- 
stitious rites? 

" Iren. They use to place him that shall be 
their captaine upon a stone, always reserved to 
that purpose, and placed commonly upon a hill. 
In some of which I have seen formed and en- 
graven a foot, which they say was the measure 
of their first captaine's foot ; whereon hee stand- 
ing, receives an oath to preserve all the ancient 
former customes of the countrey inviolable, and 
to deliver up the succession peaceably to his 
Tanist, and then hath a wand delivered unto 
him by some whose proper ofifice that is ; after 
which, descending from the i:one. he turneth' 
himself round, thrice forwards and thrice back- 
wards. 

" Eudox. But how is the Tanist chosen ? 

" Iren. They say he setteth but one foot 
\)pon the stone, and receiveth the like oath that 
the captaine did." — Spenser's View of the 
State 0/ Ire/and, apud H-'orks, Lond. 1805, 
8vo., vol. viii. p. 306. 

The Tanist, therefore, of O'Neale, was the 
heir-apparent of his power. This kind, of suc- 
cession appears also to have regulated, in very 
remote times, the succession to the crown of 
Scotland. It would have been imprudent, if 
not impossible, to have asserted a minor's right 
o£ succession m those stormy days, when the 



principles of policy were summed up in ray 
friend Mr. Wordsworth's lines: — 

" the good old rule 

Suificeth them ; tiie simple plan. 
That they should take who have the power, 
And they should keep who can." 

Note 41. 
IViik wild Tttajestic port and tone, 
L ike envoy of same barbarous throne. — P. 204, 

The Irish chiefs, in their intercourse with the 
English, and with each other, were wont to 
assume the language and style of independent 
royalty. 

Note 42. 

H is foster-f'ither was his guide. — P. 205. 

There was no tie more sacred among the 
Irish tha.i that which connected the foster- 
father, as well as the nurse herself, with the 
child they brought up. 

Note 43. 

Great Nialofthe Pledges Nitie.—V. 206. 

Neal Naighvallach, or Of the Nine Hostages, 
is sa d to have been Monarch of all Ireland 
during the end of the fourth or beginning of the 
fifth century. He exercised a predatory war- 
fare on the coast of England and of Bretagne, 
or Armorica : and from the latter country 
brought off the celebrated Saint Patrick, a 
youth of sixteen, among other captives, whom 
he transported to Ireland. Neal derived h;s 
epithet from nine nations, or tribes, whom he 
held under his subjection, and from whom h« 
took hostages. 

Note 44. 

Shane-Dymas wild. — P. 206. 

This Shane-Dvmas, or John the Wanton, 
lield the title and power of O'Neale in the 
earlier part of Elizabeth's reign, against whom 
he rebelled repeatedly. 

' This chieftain is handed down to us as the 
most proud and profligate man on earth. He 
was immoderately addicted to women and wine. 
He is said to have had 200 tuns of wine at once in 
his cellar at Dandram, but usquebaugh was his 
favorite liquor. He spared neither age nor 
condition of the fair sex. Altho' so illiterate 
that he could not write, he was not destitute of 
address, his understanding was strong, and his 
courage daring. He had 600 men for his guard; 
4000 foot, 1000 horse for the field. He claimed 
superiority over all the lords of Ulster, and 
called himself king thereof."— Camden. _ 

When reduced to extremity by the Enghsh, 
and forsaken by his allies, this Shane-Dymas 
fied to Clandeboy, then occupied by a colony 
of Scottish Highlanders of the family of Mac- 
Donell. He vvas at first courteously received ; 
but by degrees they began to quarrel about the 
slaughter of some of their friends whom Sh.we- 




A 



w 



w 




038 



APPENDIX. 



Dymas had put to death, and advancing from 
words to deeds, fell upon him with their broad- 
swords, and cut him to pieces. After his death 
a law wjs made that none should presume to 
take the name and title of O'Neale. 

NOTB 45. 

Geraldine. — P. 206. 

The O'Neales were closely allied with this 
powerful and warlike family ; for Henry Owen 
O'Neale married the daughter of Thomas Earl 
of Kildare, and their son Con-More married 
bis cousin-german, a daughter of Gerald Earl of 
Kildare. This Con-More cursed any of his 
posterity who should learn the English language, 
sow corn, or build houses, so as to invite the 
English to settle in their country. Others 
ascribe this anathema to his son Con-Bacco. 
Fearflatha O'Gnive, bard to the O'Neales of 
Clannaboy, complains in the sane spirit of the 
towers and ramparts with which the strangers 
had disfigured the fair sporting fields of Erin. 
— See Walker's Irish Bards, p. 140. 

Note 46. 

his ^age, the next degree 

In that old time to chivalry. — -P. 206. 
Originally, the order of chivalry embraced 
three ranks : — i. The Page ; u. The Squire ; 
3. The Knight ; — a gradation which seems to 
have been imitated in the mystery of free- 
masonry. But, before the reign of Charles I., 
the custom of serving as a squire had fallen into 
disuse, though the order of the page was still, 
to a certain degree, in observance. This state 
of servitude was so far from inferring anything 
degrading, that it was considered as the regular 
school for acquiring every quality necessary for 
futiire distinction. 

Note 47. 

SeenC d half abandon^ d to decay. — P. 211. 

The ancient castle of Rokeby stood exactly 
upon the site of the present mansion, by which 
a part of its walls is enclosed. It is sur- 
rounded by a profusion of fine wood, and the 
park in which it stands is adorned by the 
junction of the Greta and of the Tees. The 
title of Baron Rokeby of Armagh wa^, in 1777, 
conferred on the Right Reverend Richard 
Robinson, Primate of Ireland, descended of 
the Robinsons, formerly of Rokeby, in York- 
shire. 

Note 48. 

The Felon Sow- — P. 212. 

The ancient minstrels had a comic as well as 
a serious strain of romance ; and although the 
examples of the latter are by far the most 
numerous, they are, perhaps, the less valuable. 
The comic romance was a sort of parody upon 
the usual subjects of minstrel poetry. If the 
latter described deeds of heroic achievement, 



and the events of the battle, the tourney, and 
the chase, the former, as m the Tournament 
of Tottenham, introduced a set of clowns de- 
bating in the field, with all the assumed cir- 
cumstances of chivalry. One of the very best of 
these mock romances, and which has no smaJl 
portion of comic humor, is the Hunting of 
the Felon Sovv of Rokeby by the Friars of 
Richmond. 

Note 4g. 
The Filea 0/ OW'eale was he. — -P. 213. 
The Filea, or Ollamh Re Dan, was the proper 
bard, or, as the name literally implies, poet. 
Each chieftain of distinction had one or more in 
his service, whose office was usually hereditary. 
The late ingenious Mr. Cooper Walker, has as- 
sembled a curious collection of particulars con- 
cerning this order of men, in his Historical 
Memoirs of the Irish Bards. There were 
itinerant bards of less elevated rank, but all 
were held in the highest veneration. 

Note 50. 

Ah, Clandeboy] thy friendly Jloor 
Slieve-Donard's oak shall light no more. 

-P. 2.3, 
Clandeboy is a district of Ulster, formerly 
possessed by the sept of the O'Neales, and 
Slieve-Donard a romantic mountain in the same 
province. The clan was ruined after Tyrone's 
great rebellion, and their places of abode laid 
desolate. The ancient Irish, wild and unculti- 
vated in other respects, did not yield even to 
their descendants in practising the most free 
and extended hospitality. 

Note 51. 
On Marwood Chase and Toller Hill. — P.2i;3, 
Marwood Chase is the old Park extending 
along the Durham side of the Tees, attached to 
Barnard Castle. Toller Hill is an eminence on 
the Yorkshire side of the river, commanding a 
full view of the ruins. 

Note 52. 

The ancient Efiglish minstrePs dress. 

—P. 214. 

Among the entertainments presented to Eliza- 
beth at Kenilworth Castle, was the introduction 
of a person designed to represent a travelling 
minstrel, who entertained her with a solemn 
story out of the Acts of King Arthur. Of this 
person's dress and appearance Mr.Laneham has 
given us a very accurate account, transferred 
by Bishop Percy to the preliminary Dissertation 
on Minstrels, prefixed to The Reliques 0/ An- 
cient Poetry, vol. i. 

Note 53. 
LittUcote Hall.— 7. 218. 
This Ballad is founded on a fact ; — the hor- 
rible murder of an infant by Wild Dayrell, a3 







ROKEBY. 



639 



iie was called. He gave the house and lands 
as a bribe to the judge (Popham) in order to 
save his life. A few months after Dayrell broke 
his neck by a fall from his horse. — Editor. 

Note 54. 

As thick a smoke these hearths have given 

At Hallowtide, or Christmas-even. 

—P. 219. 

Such an exhortation was, in similar circuni- 
etances, actually given to his followers by a 
Welsh chieftain. 

Note 55. 
O'er Hexhajn's altar hung my glove. — P. 226. 

This custom among the Redesdale and Tyiie- 
dale Borderers is mentioned in the interesting 
Life of Barnard Gilpin. 

" It happened that a quarrel of this kind was 
on foot when Mr. Gilpin was at Rothbury, ni 
those parts. During the two or three first days 
of his preaching, the contending parties ob- 
served some decorum, and never appeared at 
church together. At length, however, they met. 
One party had been early at church, and just as 
Mr. Gilpin began his sermon, the other entered. 
They stood not long silent. Inflamed at the 
sight of each other, they began to clash their 
weapons, for they were all armed with javelins 
and swords, and mutually approached. Awed, 
however, by the sacredness of \.\\i place, the 
*.umult in some degree ceased. Mr. Gilpin pro- 
ceeded ; when again the combatants began to 
brandiiali their weapons, and draw towards each 
other. As a fray seemed near, Mr. Gilpin 
stepped from the pulpit, went betwee.i them, and 
addressed the leaders, put an end to the quarrel, 
for the present, but could not effect an entire re- 
conciliation. They promised him, however, 
that till the sermon was over they would make 



no more disturbance. He then went again into 
the pulpit, and spent the rest of the time in en- 
deavoring to nake them ashamed of what 
they had done. His behavior and discourse 
affected them so much, that, at his further en- 
treaty, they promised to forbear ail acts ol hos- 
tility while he continued in the country. And 
so much respected was he among them, that 
whoever was in fear of his enemy used to resort 
where Mr. Gilpin was, esteeming his presence 
the best protection. 

" One Suiiday morning, coming to a church ic 
those parts, before the people were assembled, 
he observed a glove hanging up, ind was in- 
formed by the sexton that it was meant as a 
challenge to any one who should take it down. 
Mr. Gilpin ordered the sexton to reach it tohiri; 
but upon his utterly refusing to touch it, he 
took it down himself, and put it into his breast. 
When the people were assembled, he went into 
the pulpit, and, before he concluded his sermon, 
took occasion to rebuke them severely for thtse 
inhuman challei.ges. ' I hear,' saith he, ' that 
one among you hath hanged up a glove, even 
in this sacred place, threatening to fight any 
one who taketh it down : see, I have taken it 
down ; ' and, pulling out the glove, he held it 
up to the congregation, and then showed them 
how unsuitable such savage practices were to 
the profession of Christianity, using such per- 
suasives to mutuai love as he thought would 
most affect them." — Life 0/ Barnard Gilpin, 
Lond. 1753, 8vo., p. 177. 

Note 56. 
A horseman arm'' d, at headlong speed. — P. 229 
This, and what follows, is taken from a real 
achievement of Major Robert Philipson, called 
from his desperate and adventurous courage, 
Robin the Devil. 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMATN. 



Note i. 
The Baron of Trierrnaiti. — P. 233. 

Triermain was a fief of the Barony of Gils- 
land in Cumberland ; it was possessed by a 
Saxon family at the time of the Conquest, but, 
" after the death of Gilmore, Lord of Tryer- 
maine and Torcrossock, Hubert Vaux gave 
Tryermaine and Torcrossock to his second son, 
Ranulph Vaux ; which Ranulph afterwards 
became heir to his elder brother Robert, the 



founder of Lanercost, who died without issue- 
Ramilph, being Lord of all Gilsland, gave Gil- 
more's lands to his younger son, named Roland, 
and let the Barony descend to his eldest son 
Robert, son of Ranulph. Ronald had issue 
Alexander, and he Ranulph. after whom suc- 
ceeded Robert, and they were named Rolands 
successively, that were lords thereof, until the 
reign of Edward the Fourth. That house gave 
for arms, Vert, a bend dexter, chequy, or ant- 
gules." — BoRNs's Antiquities of iVesttnorf- 
lan-', and Cumberland, vol. ii. p. 4S2. 







640 



APPENDIX. 



Note 2. 
Ht pass" d red Penrith'' s Table Round. — P. 234. 
A circular intreiichmeiit, about half a mile 
from Penrith, is thus popularly termed. The 
circle within the ditch is about one hundred and 
sixty paces in circumference, with openings, or 
approaches, directly opposite to each other. As 
this ditch is on the inner side, it could not be 
intended for the purpose of defence, and it has 
reasonably been conjectured that the enclosure 
wasdesis^iied tor the solemn exercise of feats of 
chivalry, and the embankment around for the 
convenience of the spectators. 

Note 3. 
MayburgJC s mound. — P. 234. 
Higher up the river Eamont than Arthur's 
Round Table, is a prodigious enclosure of great 
antiquity, formed by a collection of stones upon 
the top of a gently sloping hill, called May- 
burgh. In the plain which it encloses theie 
stands erect an unhewn stone of twelve feet in 
height. Two similar masses are said to have 
been destroyed during the memory of man. The 
whole appears to be a monument of Druidical 
times. 

Note 4. 
Tke sable tarn. — P. 235. 

The small lake called Scales- tarn lies so 
deeply embosomed in the recesses of the huge 
mountain called Saddleback, more poetically 
Glaramara, is of such great depth, and so com- 
pletely hidden from the sun, that it is said its 
beams never reach it, and that the reflection 
of the stars may be seen at midday. 

Note 5. 
The terrors of TintadgeVs spear. — P J37. 
Tintadgel Castle, in Cornwall, is reported to 
have been the birthplace of King Arthur. 

Note 6. 
Scattering a shower of fiery dew. — P. 239. 
The author has an indistinct recollection of 
an adventure, somewhat similar to that which 
is here ascribed to King Arthur, having be- 
fallen one of the ancient Kings of Denmark. 
The horn in which the burning liquor was pre- 
sented to that Monarch, is said still to be pre- 
served in the Roy.il Museum at Copenhagen. 
Note 7. 
The Monarch, breathless and amazed. 
Back on (ne fatal castle gazed — 
Nor tower nor donjon could he spy, 
Darkeniftg against the fnorning sky. 

— P. 239. 

-^ " We now gained a view of the Vale of St. 
John's, a very narrow dell, hemmed in by 
mountains, through which a small brook makes 
many meanderings, washing little euc'osures of 
grass-ground, which stretch up the rising of the 



hills. In the widest part of the dale you are 
struck witii the appearance of an ancient ruined 
castle, which seems to stand upon the summit 
of a little mount, the mountains around forming 
an amphitheatre. The massive bulwark show s 
a front of various towers, and makes an awful, 
rude, and Gothic appearance, with its lofty tur- 
rets and rugged battlements ; we traced the 
galleries, the bending arches, the buttresses. 
The greatest antiquity stands characterized in 
its architectures ; the inhabitants near it assert 
it is an antediluvian structure. 

The traveller's curiosity is roused, and he 
prepares to make a nearer approach, when tha. 
curiosity is put upon the rack by his being 
assured, that, if he advances, certain genii who 
govern the place, by virtue of their super- 
natural art and necromancy, will strip it of all 
its beauties, and by enchantment transform the 
magic walls. The vale seems adapted for the 
habitation of such beings; its gloomy recesses 
and retirements look like the haunts of evil 
spirits. There wa? no delusion in the report ; 
we were sofm convinced of its truth ; for this 
•piece of antiquity, so venerable and noble in its 
aspect, as we drew near, changed its figure, and 
proved no other than a shaken massive pile of 
rocks, which stand in the midst of this little 
vale, disunited from the adjoining mountains, 
and have so much the real form and 1 esemblance 
of a castle, that they bear ;he nains of the 
Castle Rocks of St. John." — Hutchinson's 
Exc2trsio7i to the Lakes, p. 121. 

Note S. 
fivelve bloody fields, ■with glory fought. 

— P. 240. 

Arthur is said to have defeated the Saxons 
in twelve pitched battles, and to have achieved 
the other feats alluded to in the text. 

Note 9. 

The flower of chivalry. 
There Galaad sat with manly grace, 
I'et maiden vicekness in his face ; 
There lilorolt of the iron mace. 

And love-lorn Tristi em there. 

— P. 240. 
The characters named in the stanza are all of 

them more or less distinguished in the romances 
which treat of King Arthur and his Round 
Table, and their names are strung together, ac- 
cording to the established custom of minstrels 
upon such occasions, for example, in the ballad 
of the marriage of Sir Gawaine. — 

"Sir Lancelot, Sir Stephen bolde, 
They rode with him that daye, 
And foremost of the companye, 
There rode the stewarde Kaye. 

" Soe did Sir Banier, and Sir Bore, 
And eke Sir Garratte keen. 
Sir Tristrem, too, that gentle knight, 
To the forest, fresh and greene." 







THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



641 



Latzceloti thai evermore 
Look'd stoleti-zvise on the Qjeeeti. — P. 240. 

Upon this delicate subject hear Richard Rob- 
inson, citizen of London, in his Assertion of 
King Arthur : " But as it is a thing sufficiently 
apparent that she (Guenever, wife of King 
Arthur) was beautiful, so it is a thing doubted 
whether she was chaste, yea or no. Truly, so 
far as I ean with honestie, I would spare the 
impayred honour of noble women. But yet the 
truth of the historie pluckes me by the eare, 
and willeth not onely, but commandeth me to 
declare what the ancients have deemed ol her. 
To wrestle or contend with so great authoritie 
were indeed unto me a controversie, and that 
greate." — A ssertion of King A rthure. Im- 
printed by John Wolfe, London. 1582. 

Note ii. 

There were two -who loved their neighbors' 

wives, 
A nd one who loved his own. — P . 241. 

" In our forefathers' tyme, when Papistrie, 
as a standyng poole, covered and overflowed all 
England, fewe books were read in our tongue, 
savying certaine bookes of chevalrie, as they 
said for pastime and pleasure ; which, as some 
say, were made in the monasteries by idle 
monks or wanton chanons. As one, for ex- 
ample. La Morte d'Arthure; the whole pleas- 
ure of which book standeth in two special 
poyntes, in open manslaughter and bold baw- 
drye ; in which booke they be counted the 



noblest knightes that do kill most men without 
any quarrell, and commit foulest adulteries by 
subtlest shiftes ; as Sir Launcelot, with the wife 
of King Arthur, his master; Sir Tristram, with 
the wife of King Marke, his uncle ; Sir Lame- 
rocke, with the wife of King Lote, that was his 
own aunt. This is good stuff for wise men to 
laugh at; or honest men to take pleasure at; 
yet I know when God's Bible was banished the 
Court, and La iMorte d'Arthure received into 
the Prince's chamber." — Ascham's School- 
master. 

Note 12. 
Who won the atp of gold. — P. 241. 

See the comic tale of the Boy and the Mantle, 
in the third volume of Percy's Reliques of 
Ancient Poetry, from the Breton or Norman 
original of which Ariosto is supposed to have 
taken his Tale of the Enchanted Cup. 

Note 13. 

Whose logic is from Single-speech.— P. 244. 

See "Parliamentary Logic, &c.," by the 
Hon.W.G. Hamilton (1808), commonly called 
" Single-Speech Hamilton." 

Note to the Poem. 
Scott composed this poem with the intention 
that the public should attribute it to his friend 
Mr. Erskine (Lord Kinedder). The joke suc- 
ceeded ; but on the third edition being pub- 
lished, Lord Kinedder avowed the true author, 
the deception having gone further than either 
he or Scott intended. We mention this fact m 
order to explain the preface. — Ed. 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



Note i. 
Thy rug?ed halls, A rtornish ! rung.— P. 258. 

The ruins of the Castle of Artornish are situ- 
ated upon a promontory, on the Morven, or 
mainland side of the Sound of Mull, a name 
given to the deep arm of the sea which divides 
that island from the continent. The situation 
is wild and romantic in the highest degree, 
having on the one hand a high and precipitous 
chain of rocks overhanging the sea, and on the 
other the narrow entrance to the beautiful salt- 
water lake, called Loch Alline, which is m many 
places finely fringed with copsewood. The 
ruins of Artornish are not now very consider- 
able, and consist chiefly of the remains of an 



old keep, or tower, with fragments of outward 
defences. But, in former days, it was a place 
of great consequence, being one of the principal 
strongholds, which the Lords ot the Isles, 
during the period of their stormy independence, 
possessed upon the mainland of Argyleshire. It 
is almost opposite to the Bay ot Aros, m the 
Island of Mull, where there was another castle, 
the occasional residence of the Lords of the 
Isles. 

Note 2. 

J?ude Heiskar's seal through surges dark. 
Will long pursue the minstrel's bark. — 

The seal displays a taste for music, which 
could scarcely be expected from his habits and 
local predilections. They will long follow a boat 





M 



V 





642 



APPENDIX. 



in which any musical instrument is played, and 
even a tune simply whistled has attractions for 
them. The Deau of the Isles says ot Heiskar, 
a small, uninhabited rock, about twelve (Scot- 
tish) miles from the Isle of Uist, that an infinite 
slaughter of seals takes place there. 

Note 3. 

a turret'' s airy head. 

Slender and steep, and battled round, 
0' erlook' d, dark Mull ! thy mighty Sound. — 
P. 259. 
The Sound of Mull, which divides that island 
from the continent of Scotland, is one of the 
most striking scenes which the Hebrides afford 
to the traveller. Sailing from Oban to Aros, 
or Tobermory, through a narrow channel, yet 
deep enough to bear vessels of the largest bur- 
den, he has on his left the bold and mountainous 
shores of Mull ; on the right those of that dis- 
trict of Argyleshire, called Morven, or Morvern, 
successively indented by deep salt-water lochs, 
running up many miles inland. To the south- 
eastward arise a prodigious range of mountains, 
among which Cruachan-Ben is pre-eminent. 
And to the northeast is the no less huge and 
picturesque range of the Ardnamurchan hills. 
Many ruinous castles, situated generally upon 
cliffs overhanging the ocean, add interest to the 
scene. 

Note 4. 

The heir of mighty Somerled. — P. 259. 

Somerled was thane of Argyle and Lord of 
the Isles, about the middle of the twelfth cen- 
tury. He seems to have exercised his authority 
in both capacities, independent of the crown of 
Scotland, against which he often stood in hos- 
tility. He made various incursions upon the 
western lowlands during the reign of Malcolm 
IV., and seems to have made peace with hnn 
upon the terms of an independent prince, about 
the year 1157. In ii64he resumed the war 
against Malcolm, and invaded Scotland with a 
large, but probably a tumultuary army, col- 
lected in the isles, in the mainland of Argyle- 
shire, and in the neighboring provinces of 
Ireland. He was defeated and slain, in an en- 
gagement with a very inferior force, near Ren- 
frew. 

Note 5. 

Lord of the Isles. — P. 259. 

The representative of this independent prin- 
cipality, for such it seems to have been, though 
acknowledging occasionally the pre-eminence 
cf the Scottish crown, was, at the period of the 
poem, Angus, called Angus Og ; but the name 
has been eu/>honiiS gratia, exchanged for that 
of Ronald, which frequently occurs in the 
genealogy. Angus was a protector of Robert 
Bruce, whom he received in his Castle of Dun- 
npverty, during the time of his greatest distress. 



Note 6. 

The Hottse of Lorn. — P. 260. 

The House of Lorn, as we observed in a 
former note, was, like the Lord of the Isles, 
descended from a son of Somerled, slain at Ren- 
frew, in 1 164. This son obtained the succession 
of his mainland territories, comprehending the 
greater part of tlie three districts of Lorn, in 
Argyleshire, and of course might rather be con- 
sidered as petty princes than feudal barons. 
They assumed the patronymic appellation 0/ 
MacDougal, by which they are distinguished in 
the history of the Middle Ages. 

Note 7. 

A waked before the rushing proiv. 
The mitnic fires of ocean glow. 
Those lightnings of the wave. — 

P. 262. 

The phenomenon called by sailors Sea-fire, 
is one of the most beautitul and interesting 
which is witnessed in the Hebrides. At times 
the ocean appears entirely illuminated around 
the vessel, and a long tram of lambent corus- 
cations are perpetually bursting upon the sides 
of the vessel, or pursuing her wake through the 
darkness. 

Note 8. 

That keen knight, De A rgentitte- — P. 264. 

Sir Egidius, or Giles de Argentine, was one 
of the most accomplished knights of the period. 
He had served in the wars of Henry of Luxem- 
burg with such high reputation ihat he was, in 
popular estimation, the third worthy of the age. 
Those to whom fame assigned precedence over 
hnn were, Henry of Luxemburg himself, and 
Robert Bruce. Argentine had warred in Pales- 
tine, encountered thrice with the Saracens, and 
had slain two antagonists in each engagement; 
— an easy matter, he said, for one Christian 
kniglit to slay two Pagan dogs. 

Note 9. 

" Fill me the mighty cup ! " he said, 
" £rst own'd by royal Somerled." — 

P. 264. 

A Hebridean drinking cup, of the most 
ancient and curious workmanship, has been 
long preserved in the Castle of Dunvegan, in 
Skye, the romantic seat of Mac-Leod of Mac- 
Leod, the chief of that ancient and powerful 
clan. The horn of Rorie More, preserved in 
the same family, and recorded by Dr. Johnson, 
is not to be compared with this piece of an- 
tiquity, which is one of the greatest curiosities 
in Scotland. 



' 





THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



64^ 



Note 10. 

" the rebellions Scottish crew. 

Who to Rath-Erin's shelter drew, 
iVith Carrick's outlaw' d chief ." — 

P. 265. 

It must be remembered by all who have read 
the Scottish history, that after he had slain 
Comyn at Dumfries, and asserted his right to 
the Scottish crown, Robert Bruce was reduced 
to the greatest extremity by the EngHsh and 
their adherents. He was crowned at Scone by 
the general consent of the Scottish barons, but 
his authority endured but a short time. Ac- 
cording to the phrase said to have been used by 
his wife, he was for that year " a summer king, 
but not a winter one." 

Note ii. 
The Broach 0/ Lome. — P. 266. 
It has been generally mentioned in the pre- 
ceding notes, that Robert Bruce, after his de- 
feat at Methven, being hard pressed by the 
English, endeavored, with the dispirited rem- 
nant of his followers, to escape from Breadal- 
bane and the mountanis of Perthshire into the 
Argyleshire Highlands. But he was encountered 
and repulsed, after a very severe engagement, 
by the Lord of Lorn. Bruce's personal strength 
and courage wei^ never displayed to greater 
advantage than in this conflict. There is a tra- 
dition in the family of the Mac-Dougals of 
Lorn, that their chieftain engaged in personal 
battle with Bruce himself, while the latter was 
employed in protecting the retreat of his men; 
that Mac-Dougal was struck down by the king, 
whose strength of body was equal to his vigor 
of mind, and would have been slain on the spot, 
had not two of Lorn's vassals, a father and son, 
whom tradition terms Mac-Keoch, rescued 
him by seizing the mantle of the monarch, and 
dragging him from above his adversary. Bruce 
rid himself of these foes by two blows of his re- 
doubted battle-axe, but was so closely pressed 
by the other followers of Lorn that he was 
forced to abandon the mantle, and broach 
which fastened it, clasped in the dying grasp 
of the Mac-Keochs A studded broach, said 
to have been that which King Robert lost upon 
this occasion, was long preserved in the family 
of Mac Dougal, and was lost in a fire which 
consumed their temporary residence. 



Note 12. 
When Comyn fell beneath the knife 
Of that fell homicide the Bruce. — P. 263. 
Vain Kirkpatrick's bloody dirk. 
Making S7ire of murder' s work. — P. 266. 
Every reader must recollect that the proxi- 
mate cause of Bruce's asserting his right to the 
crown of Scotland, was the death of John, called 
the Red Comyn. The causes of this act of vio 



both of the perpetrator and sufferer, and from 
the place where the slaughter was committed, 
are variously related by the Scottish and Eng- 
lish historians, and cannot now be ascertained. 
The fact that they met at the high altar of the 
Minorites, or Greyfriars' Church in Dumfries, 
that their difference broke out into high and 
insulting language, and that Bruce drew his 
dagger and stabbed Comyn, is certain. Rush- 
ing to the door of the church, Bruce met two 
powerful barons, Kirkpatrick of Closeburn, 
and James de Lindsay, who eagerly asked him 
what tidings ? " Bad tidings," answered Bruce ; 
"I doubt' I have slain Comyn." "Doubtest 
thou ? " said Kirkpatrick ; " I make sicker" 
(/. e. sure). With these words, he and Lind- 
say rushed into the church, and despatched the 
wounded Comyn. The Kirkpatricks of Close- 
burn assumed m memory of this deed, a hand 
holding a dagger, with the memorable words, 
"I make sicker." 

Note 13. 
Barendown fled fast away. 
Fled the fiery De la Haye. — P- 266. 
These knights are enumerated by Barbour 
among the small number of Bruce's adherents, 
who remained in arms with him after the battle 
of Methven. 

Note 14. 
Was't not enough to RonaWs bower 
I brought thee like a paramour. — 

■^ P. 268. 

It was anciently customary in the Highlands 
to bring the bride to the house of the husband. 
Nay, in some cases, the complaisance was 
stretched so far that she remained there upon 
trial for a twelvemonth ; and the bridegroom, 
even after this period of cohabitation, retained 
an option of refusing to fulfil his eniagement. 
It is said that a desperate feud ensued between 
the clans of Mac-Donald of Sleate and Mac- 
Leod, owing to the tormer chief having availed 
himself of this license to send back to Dunve- 
gan a sister or daughter of the latter. Mac- 
Leod, resenting the indignity, observed, that 
since there was no wedding bonfire, there 
should be one to solemnize the divorce. Ac- 
cordingly, he burned and laid waste the terri- 
tories of Mac-Donald, who retaliated, and a 
deadly feud, with all its accompaniments, took 
place in form. 

Note 15. 
Since matchless Wallace first had been 
In jnock^ry crown' d with wreaths of green. 
— P. 269. 

Stow gives the following curious account of 
the trial and execution of this celebrated patriot: 
" William Wallace, who had ofttimes set Scot- 
land in great trouble, was taken and brought to 
London, with great numbers of men and women 
wondering upon him. He was lodged in the 



J L. 



lence, equally extraordinary from the high rank, I house of William Delect, a citizen of London 




T^— 





-t^ 



644 



APPENDIX. 



in Fenchurch Street. On th»; morrow, being 
the eve of St. Bartholomew, he was brought on 
horsel ack to Westminster. John Legrave and 
Geffry, knights, the mayor, sheriffs, and alder- 
men of London, and many others, both on 
horseback and on foot, accompanying him, and 
in the great hall at Westminster, "he being 
placed on the south bench, crowned with laurel, 
for that he had said in times past that he ought 
to bear a crown m that hall, as it was commonly 
reported, and being impeached for a traitor by 
Sir Peter Marjorie, the king's justice, he an- 
swered, that he was never traitor to the King 
of England, but for other things whereof he 
was accused, he confessed them, and was after 
headed and quartered." — Stow, Chr. p. 209. 
There is something singularly doubtful about 
the mode in which Wallace was taken. That 
he was betrayed to the English is indubitable ; 
and popular fame charges Sir John Menteith 
with the indelible infamy. " Accursed," says 
Arnold Blair, " be the day of nativity of John 
de Menteith, and may his name be struck out of 
the book of life." But John de Menteith was all 
along a zealous favorer of the Enslish interest, 
and was governor of Dumbarton Castle by com- 
mission from Edward the First : and therefore, 
as the accurate Lord Hailes has observed, could 
not be the friend and confidant of Wallace, as 
tradition states him to be. The truth seems to 
be, that Menteith, thoroughly engaged in the 
English interest, pursued Wallace closely, and 
made him prisoner through the treachery of an 
attendant, whom Peter Langtoft calls Jack 
Short. The infamy of seizing Wallace must 
rest, therefore, between a degenerate Scottish 
nobleman, the vassal of England, and a do- 
mestic, the obscure agent of his treachery ; 
between Sir John Menteith, son of Walter, 
Earl ot Menteith, and the traitor Jack Short. 

Note 16. 
IVas not the life of A thole shed. 
To soothe the tyrant's sicketCd bed J — 

P. 269. 
John de Strathbogie. Earl of Athole, had at- 
tempted to escape out of the kingdom, but a 
storm cast him uiion the coast, when he was 
taken, sent to London, and executed with cir- 
cumstances of great barbarity, being first half 
strangled, then let down from the gallows while 
yet alive, barbarously dismembered, and his 
body burnt. It may surprise the reader to 
learn that this was a 7nitigated punishment ; 
for in respect that his mother was a grand- 
ilaughter of King John, by his natural son, 
Richard, he was not drawn on a sledge to exe- 
cution, " that point was forgiven," and be made 
the passage on horseback. Matthew of West- 
minster tells us that King Edward, then ex- 
tremely ill, received great ease from the news 
that his relative was apprehended. " Quo 
audita. Rex A 7igliip, etsi, gravissitno niorbo 
tunc langueret, levius tanien tulit do/orent." 
To this singular expression the text alludes. 



Note 17. 
While I the blessed cross advance, 
A nd expiate this unhappy chance. 
In Palestine with sword and lance. — 

P. 270. 
Bruce uniformly professed, and probably felt, 
compunction for having violated the sanctuary 
of the church by the slaughter of Comyn, and 
finally, in his last hours, in testimony of his 
faith, penitence, and zeal, he requested James 
Lord Douglas to carry his heart to Jerusalem, 
to be there deposited in the Holy Sepulchre. 

Note i8. 
De Bruce ! I rose with purpose dread 
To speak my curse iipon thy head. — 

P. 270. 
So soon as the notice of Comyn's slaughter 
reached Rome, Bruce and his adherents were 
excommunicated. It was published first by the 
Archbishop of York, and renewed at different 
times, particularly by Lambyrton, Bishop of St. 
Andrews, in 1308, but it does not appear to 
have answered the purpose which the English 
monarch expected. Indeed, for reasons which 
it may be diflicult to trace, the thunders of 
Rome descended upon the Scottish mountains 
with less effect than in more fertile countries. 
Probably the comparative poverty of the bene- 
fices occasioned that fewer foreign clergy set- 
tled in Scotland, and the interests of the native 
diurchmen were linked with that of their 
country. Manyof tlie Scottish prelates, Lam- 
byrton the primate particularly, declared for 
Bruce, while he was yet under the ban of the 
church, though he afterwards again changed 
sides. 

Note 19. 

A hunted wanderer on the "wild. 
On foreign shores a man exiled. — 

P. 270. 

This is not metaphorical. The echoes of 
Scotland did actually 

" ring 

With the bloodhounds that bay'd for her fugi- 
tive king." 

A very curious and romantic tale is told by 
Barbour upon this subject, which may be 
abridged as follows : — 

When Bruce had again \,'0t footing in Scot- 
land, in the spring of 1306, he continued to be 
in a very weak and precarious condition, gain- 
ing, indeed, occasional advantages, but obliged 
to fly before his enemies whenever they as- 
sembled in force. Upon one occasion, while he 
was lying with a small party in the wilds of 
Cumnock, in Ayrshire, Aymerde Valence, Earl 
of Pembroke, with his inveterate foe, John of 
Lorn, came against him suddenly with eight 
hundred Highlanders, besides a large body of 
men-at-arms. They brought with them a 
slough-dog, or bloodhound, which, some say, 




w 




(T' 




THE LORD OP THE ISLES. 



645 



had been once a favorite with the Bruce him- 
self, and therefore was least likely to lose the 
trace. 

Bruce, whose force was under four hundred 
nien, continued to make head against the 
cavalry, till the men of Lorn had nearly cut off 
his retreat. Perceiving the danger of his situ- 
ation, he acted as the celebrated and ill-requited 
Mina is said to have done in similar circum- 
Eiances. He divided h's force into three parts, 
appointed a place of rendezvous, and com- 
manded them to retreat by different routes. 
But when John of Lorn arrivfd at the spot 
where they divided, he caused the hound to be 
put upon the trace, which immediately directed 
hira to the pursuit of that party which Bruce 
headed. This, therefore, Lorn pursued with his 
whole force, paying no attention to the others. 
The king again subdivided his small body into 
three parts, and with the same result, for the 
pursuers attached themselves exclusively to 
that which he led in person. He then caused 
his followers to disperse, and retained only his 
foster-brother in his company. The slough- 
dog followed the trace, and, neglecting the 
others, attached himself and his attendants to 
the pursuit of the king. Lorn became con- 
vinced that his enemy was nearly in his power, 
and detached five of his most active attendants 
to follow him and interrupt his flight. They 
did so with all the agility of mountaineers. 
* ' What aid wilt thou make ? " said Bruce to his 
single attendant, when he saw the five men gain 
ground on him. '" The best I can," replied his 
foster-brother. "Then," said Bruce, " here I 
make my stand." The five pursuers came up 
fast. The king took three to himself, leaving 
the other two to his foster-brother. He slew 
the first who encountered him ; but observ- 
ing his foster-brother hard pressed, he sprung 
to his assistance, and despatched one of his 
assailants. Leaving him to deal with the survi- 
vor, he returned upon the other two, both of 
■whom he slew before his foster-brother had de- 
spatched his single antagonist. When this hard 
encounter was over, with a courtesy, which in 
the whole work marks Briice's character, he 
thanked his foster-brother for his aid. '" It 
likes you to say so," answered his follower ; 
'"but you yourself slew four of the five." 
** True," said the king, "but only because I had 
better opportunity than you. They were not 
apprehensive of me when they saw me en- 
counter three, so I had a moment's time to 
spring to thy aid, and to return equally unex- 
pectedly upon my own opponents." 

In the meanwhile Lorn's party appreached 
rapidly, and the king awl his foster-brother 
betook themselves to a neighboring wood. 
Here they sat down, for Bruce was exhausted 
by fatigue, until the cry of the slough-hound 
came so near that his foster-brother entreated 
Bruce to piovide for his safety by retreating 
further, " I have heard," answered the king, 
" that whosoever will wade a bow-shot length 



down a running stream, shall make the slough- 
hound lose scent. Let us try the experiment, 
for were yon devilish hound silenced I should 
care little for the rest." 

Lorn in the meanwhile advanced, and found 
the bodies of his slain vassals, over whom he 
made his moan, and threatened the most deadly 
vengeance. Then he followed the hound to the 
side of the brook down which the king had 
waded a great way. Here the hound was at 
fault, and John of Lorn, after long attempting 
in vain to recover Bruce's trace, relinquished 
the pursuit. 

"Others," says Barbour, " affirm that upon 
this occasion the king's life was saved by an 
excellent archer who accompanied him, and 
who perceiving they would be finally taken by 
means of the blood-hound hid himself in a 
thicket, and shot him with an arrow. In which 
way," adds the metrical biographer, "this 
escape happened I am uncertain, but at that 
brook the king escaped from his pursuers." 

Note 20. 
'' Alas! dear youth, the unhappy time." 

A nawer' d the Bruce, " nnist bear the critne^ 
Sitice guiltier far than you. 

Even / " — he paused : for Falkirk's woes 

Upon his conscious soul arose. — P. 272. 

I have followed the vulgar and inaccurate 
tradition, that Bruce fought against Wallace, 
and ths array of Scotland, at the fatal battle of 
Falkirk. The story which seems to have no 
better authority than that of Blind Harry 
bears, that having made much slaughter during 
the engagement, he sat down to dine with the 
conquerors without washing the filthy witness 
Irom his hands. 
" Fasting he was, and had been in great need. 

Blooded were all his weapons, and his weed ; 

Southeron lords scorn'd him in term;- rude, 

And said. Behold yon Scot eats his own blood. 
" Then rued he sore, for reason bad be known, 

That blood and land alike should be his own ; 

With them he long was, ere he got away, 

But contrair Scots he fought not from that 
day." 
The account given by most of our historians, 
of the conversation between Bruce and Wallace 
over the Garron river, is equally apocryphal. 
There is full evidence that Bruce was not at 
that tim". on the English side, nor present at 
the battle of Falkirk ; nay, that he acted as a 
guardian of Scotland, along with John Comyn, 
m the name of Baliol, and in opposition to the 
English. 

Note 21. 
Th.'se are the savage wilds that lie 
North of Strathnardill and Dunskye. — 
P. 273. 

The extraordinary piece of scenery which I 
have here attempted to describe is, I think, un- 
paralleled i.'i any part of Scotland, at least in 
any which I have happened to visit. It lies 







646 



APPENDIX. 



just upon the frontier of the Laird of Mac- 
Leod's country, wliicli 15 thereabouts divided 
from the estate of Mr Mac-Alhster of Strath- 
Aird. called Strathnardill by the Dean of the 
Isles- 

Note 22. 

And tnermttiii' s alabaster errot, 

H ho bathes her tm.bs in sunless well. 

Deep tn Strathaird s enchanted cell. — 

P 276 
Imagination can hardly conceive anything 
more beautiful than ikt extraordinary grotte 
discovered not many years since upon the 
estate of Alexander Mac-AIlister, Esq , of 
Strathaird It has since been much and de- 
servedly celebrated, and a full account of its 
beauties has been published by Dr Mac-Leay 
of Oban The general impression may perhaps 
be gathered from the following extract from .1 
journal, which, written under the feelings of the 
moment, is likely to be more accurate than anv 
attempt to recollect the impressions then re- 
ceived — " The first entrance to this celebrated 
cave IS rude and unpromising ; but the light of 
the torches, with which we were provided, was 
soon reflected from the roof, floor, and walls, 
which seem as if they were sheeted with marble, 
partly smooth, partly rough with frost-work and 
rustic ornaments, and partly seeming to be 
wrought into statuary The floor forms a steep 
and difficult ascent, and might be fancifully 
compared to a sheet of water, which, while it 
rushed whitening and foaming down a declivity. 
had been suddenly arrested and consolidated by 
the spell of an enchanter. Upon attaining the 
summit of this ascent, the cave opens into a 
splendid gallery, adorned with the most daz- 
zling crystallizations, and finally descends with 
rapidity to the brink of a pool of the most lim- 
pid water, about four or five yards broad. 
There opens beyond this pool a portal arch, 
formed by two columns of white s)iar. with 
beautiful chasing upon the sides, which promises 
a continuation of the cave. One of our sailors 
swam across, for there is no other mode of pass- 
ing, and informed us (as indeed we partly saw 
by the light he carried) that the enchantment 
of Mac-Allister's cave terminates with this por- 
tal, a little beyond which there was only a rude 
cavern, speedily choked with stones and earth. 
But the pool, on the brink of which we stood, 
surrounded by the most fanciful mouldings, in 
a substance resembling white marble, and dis- 
tinguished by the depth and purity of its waters, 
might have been the bathing grotto of a naiad. 
The groups of combined figures projecting, or 
embossed, by which the pool is surrounded, are 
exquisitely elegant and fanciful. A statuary 
might catch beautiful hints from the singular 
and romantic disposition of those stalactites. 
There is scarce a form or group on which active 
fancy may not trace figures or grotesque orna- 
ments, which have been gradually moulded in 
this cavern by the dropping of the calcareous 
water hardening into petrifactions. Maay of 



those fine groups have been iniured by the sense- 
less rage of appropriation of recent tourists ; 
and the grotto had lost (I am informed), through 
the smoke of torches, something of that vivid 
silver tint which was originally one of its chief 
distinctions. But enough of beauty remains to 
compensate forall that may be lost." — Dr Mac- 
Alhster of Strathaird has. with great propnty. 
built up the extei-ior entrance to this cave, in 
order that strangers may enter properly attended 
by a guide, to prevent any repetition of the 
wanton and selfish injury which this singular 
scene has already sustai led. 

Note 23. 
Yet to no sense of selfish wrongs. 
Bear witness with me., Heaven, belongs 
RIy joy o'er Edward' s bier — P 278 
The generosity which does )us;ice to the 
character of an enemy, often marks Bruce's 
sentiments, as recorded by the faithful Barbour. 
He seldom mentions a fallen enemv without 
praising such good qualities as he might pos- 
sess I shall only take one instance Shortly 
after Bruce landed in Carnck, m 1306. Sir In- 
gram Bell, the English governor of Ayr, en- 
gaged a wealthy yeoman, who had hitherto 
been a follower of Bruce, to undertake the task 
of assassinating him. The king learned this 
treachery, as he is said to have done other 
secrets of the enemy, by means of a female with 
whom he had an intrigue. Shortly after he was 
possessed of this information. Bruce, resorting to 
a small thicket at a distance from his men with 
only a single page to attend him, met the traitor, 
accompanied by two of his sons They ap- 
proached him with their wonted familiarity, but 
Bruce, taking his page's bow and arrow, com- 
manded them to keep at a distance. As they 
still pressed forward with professions of zeal for 
his person and service, he, after a second warn- 
ing, shot the father with the arrow ; and being 
assaulted successively by the two sons, de- 
spatched first one, who was armed with an axe, 
then as the other charged him with a spear, 
avoided the thrust, struck the head from the 
spear, and cleft the skull of the assassin with a 
blow of his two-handed sword. 

Note 24. 

And Railings mountains dark have sent 

Their hunters to the shore. — P 280. 
Ronin (popularly called Rum, a name which 
a poet may be pardoned for avoiding if pos- 
sible) is a very rough and mountainous island, 
adjacent to those of Eigg and Cannay. There 
IS almost no arable ground upon it, so that, ex- 
cept in the plenty of the deer, which of course 
are now nearly extirpated, it still deserves the 
description bestowed by the arch-dean of the 
Isles. ' Ronin, sixteen myle north-west from 
the lie of Coll, lyes ane ile callit Ronin lie, of 
sixteen myle long, and six in bredthe in the 
narrowest, ane forest of heigh mountains, and 




'W 





THF LORD OF THE ISLES 



647 



abundance of little deir in it, quhilk deir will 
never be slaiie dounewith, but the principal 
saittis man be m the height of the hill, because 
the deir will be callit upwart ay be the tainchell 
or without tynchel they will |)ass upwart per- 
force. In this ile will be gotten about Britane 
als many wild nests upon the plane mure as 
men pleasis to gadder, and yet by reason the 
fowls has few to start them except deir. This 
ile lyes from the west to the eist in lenth, 
and pertains to M'Kenabrey of Colla. Many 
solan geese are in this lie." — Monro's De- 
scription of the IVestern Isles, p. 18. 

Note 25. 

On Scooreigg next a wanting light 
Suniwon^ d her warriors to the fight ; 
A numerous race, ere stern Macleod 
O'er iheit bleak shores in vengeance strode. — 
P. 280. 
These, and the following lines of the stanza, 
refer to a dreadful tale of feudal vengeance, of 
which unfortunately there are relics that still 
attest the truth. Scoor-Eigg is a high peak in 
the centre of the small Isle of Eigg, or Egg. It is 
well known to mineralogists, as affording many 
interesting specimens, and to others whom 
chance or curiosity may lead to the island, for 
the astonishing view of the mainland and 
neighboring isles, which it commands. 

26M August, 1814. — At seven this morning 
we were in the sound which divides the Isle of 
Rum from that of Eigg. The latter, although 
hilly and rocky, and traversed by a remarkably 
high and barren ridge, called Scoor-Rigg, has, 
in point of soil, a much more promising ap- 
pearance. Southward of both lies the Isle of 
Muich, or Muck, a low and fertile island, and 
though the least, yet probably the most valu- 
able of the three. We manned the boat and 
rowed along the shore of Egg in quest of a 
cavern, which had been the memorable scene of 
a horrid feudal vengeance. We had rounded 
more than half the island, admiring the entrance 
of many a bold natural cave, wliich its rocks 
exhibited, without finding that which we 
sought, until we procured a guide. Nor, in- 
deed, was It surprising that it should have 
escaped the search of strangers, as there are 
no outward indications more than might dis- 
tinguish the entrance of a fox-earth. This 
noted cave has a very narrow opening, through 
■which one can hardly creep on his knees and 
hands. It rises steep and lofty within, and runs 
into the bowels of the rock to the depth of 255 
measured feet; the height at the entrance may 
be about three feet, but rises within to eighteen 
or twenty, and the breadth may vary in the 
same proportion. The rude and stony bottom 
of this cave is strewed with the bones of men, 
women, and children, the sad relics of the 
ancient inhabitants of the island, 200 in num- 
ber, v.ho were slain on the following occasion : 
—The Mac-Donalds of the Isle of Egg, a. 



people dependent on Clan-Ranald, had done 
some injury to the Laird of Mac-Leod. The 
tradition of the isle says, that it was by a per- 
sonal attack on the chieftain, in which his back 
was broken. But that of the other isles bears 
more probably, that the injury was offered to 
two or three of the Mac-Leods, who, landing 
upon Eigg, and using some freedom with the 
young women, were seized by the islanders, 
bound hand and foot, and turned adrift in a 
boat which the wind and waves safely con- 
ducted to Skye. To avenge the offence given, 
Mac-Leod sailed with such a body of men as 
rendered resistance hopeless. The natives, 
fearing his vengeance, concealed themselves in 
this cavern, and, after a strict search, the Mac- 
Leods went on board their galleys, after doing 
what mischief they could, concluding the in- 
habitants had left the isle, and betaken them- 
selves to the Long Island, or some of Clan- 
Ranald's other possessions. But next morning 
they espied from the vessels a man upon the 
island, and immediately landing again, they 
traced his retreat by the marks of his foot- 
steps, a light snow being unhappily on the 
ground. Mac-Leod then surrounded the 
cavern, summoned the subterranean garrison, 
and demanded that the individuals who had 
offended him should be delivered up to him. 
This was peremptorily refused. The chief- 
tain then caused his people to divert the course 
of a rill of water, which, falling over the en- 
trance of the cave, would have prevented his 
purposed vengeance. He then kindled at the 
entrance of the cavern a huge fire, composed of 
turf and fern, and maintained it with unrelent- 
ing assiduity, until all within were destroyed 
by suffocation. The date of this dreadful deed 
must have been recent, if one may ludge from 
the fresh appearance of those relics. I brought 
off, in spite of the prejudice of our sailors, a 
skull from among the numerous specimens of 
mortality which the cavern afforded. Before 
re-embarking we visited another cave, opening 
to the sea, but of a character entirely different, 
being a large open vault, as high as that of a 
cathedral, and running back a great way into 
the rock at the same height. The height and 
width of the opening gives ample light to the 
whole. Here, after 1745, when the Catholic 
priests were scarcely tolerated, the priest of 
Eigg used to perform the Roman Catholic 
service, most of the islandeiB being of that per- 
suasion. A huge ledge of rocks rising about 
half-way up one side of the vault, served for 
altar and pulpit ; and the appearance of a 
priest and Highland congregation in such an 
extraordinary place of worship, might iiave en- 
gaged the pencil of Salvator." 

Note 26. 
Scenes sung by him who sings no more. — 

P. 281. 
The ballad entitled, " Macphail of Colon- 
say, and the Mermaid of Corrievekin " [see 




"^A- 




/€ 



y 




648 



APPENDIX. 



Border Minstfclsy, vol. iv. p. 285], was com- 
posed by John Leyden, from a tradition which 
he found while making a tour through the 
Hebr}des about 1801, soon before his fatal de- 
parture for India, where, after having made 
further progress in Oriental literature than 
»ny man of letters who had embraced those 
vfudies, he died a martyr to his zeal for knowl- 
dge, in the island of Java, immediately after 
the landing of our forces near Batavia, in 
August, 1811. 

Note 27. 

UJ> Tarbafs western lakt they bore-, 

Then drngg' d their bark the isthmus o'er. — 

P. 281. 

The peninsula of Cantire is joined to South 

Knapdale by a very narrow isthmus ; formed 

by the western and eastern l.och of Tarbat. 

These two salt-water lakes, or bays, eticroach 

so lar upon the land, and the extremities come 

so near to each other, that there is not above 

a mile of land to divide them. 

Note 28. 

The sun, ere yet he sunk behind 
Ben-Ghoit, "the Motmlain of the IVind" 
Gave his grivi peaks a greeting kind. 

And bade Loch Ranza smile. — P. 281. 

Loch Ranza is a beautiful bay, on the 
northern extremity of Arran, opening towards 
East Tarbat Loch. It is well described by 
Pennant: "The approach was magnificent; 
a fine bay in front about a mile deep, having 
a ruined castle near the low end, on a low 
far-projecting neck of land, that forms another 
harbor, with a narrow passage ; but witliin 
has three fathom of water, even at the lowest 
ebb. Beyond is a little plain watered by a 
stream, and inhabited by the people of a small 
village. The whole rs environed with a theatre 
■ of mountains; and in the background the ser- 
rated crags of Grianan-Athol soar above." — 
Pennant's Tour to the Western Isles, pp. 
191-2. Ben-Ghaoil, "the mountain of the 
winds," is generally known by its English, and 
less poetical, name of Goattteld. 

Note 29. 

Each to Loch Ranza'' s tnargin spring ; 
That blast was winded by the king ! — 

P. 282. 

The passage in Barbour, describing the 
landing of Bruce, and his being recognized liy 
Douglas and those of his followers who had 
preceded him, by the sound of his horn, is in 
the original singularly simple and affecting. 
The king arrived in Arran with thirty-three 
small row-boats. He interrogated a female if 
there had arrived any warlike men of late in 
that country. "Surely, sir," she replied, "I 
can tell vou of many who lately came hither, 
discomfitted the English governer, and block- 



aded his castle of Brodick. They maintain 
themselves in a wood at no great distance." 
The king, truly conceiving that this must be 
Douglas and his followers, who had lately set 
forth to try their fortune in Arran, desired 
the woman to conduct him to the wood. She 
ob»yed. 

"The king then blew his horn on high; 
And girt his men that were him by, 
Hold them still, and all privy; 
And syne again his horn blew he. 
James of Dowglas heard him blow, 
And at the last alone gan know. 
And said, ' Soothly yon is the kirg ; 
I know long while since his bloi"ing.' 
The third time therewithal he blew. 
And then Sir Robert Bold it knew ; 
And said, ' Yon is the king, but dread, 
Go we forth till him. better speed.' 
Then went they till the king in hye, 
And him inclined courteously. 
And blithly welcomed them the king. 
And was joyful of their meeting. 
And kissed them ; and speared syne 
How they had fared in hunting? 
And they him to.d all, but Itsing, 
Syne laud they God of their meeting. 
Syne with the king till his harbourye 
U em both joyful and jolly." 

Barbour's Bruce, Book v. pp. 115. 116. 

Note 30. 

his brother blamed, 

Bvt shared t lie weak?iess, while ashamed. 
With haitghty laugh his head he tiirn'd 
A nd dash'd away the tear he scorn' d. — 

P. 283. 
The kind and yet fiery character of Edward 
Bruce is well painted by Barbour, in the ac- 
count of his behavior after the battle of Ban- 
nockburn. Sir Walter Ross, one of the very 
lew Scottish nobles who fell in that battle, was 
so dearly beloved by Edward, that he wished 
the victory had been lost, so Ross had lived. 

Note 31. 

Thou heard' st a wretched female plain 

In agony of travail-pain, 

A nd thou didst bid thy little band 

Upon the instant turn and stand. 

And dare the worst the foe might do. 

Rather than, like a knight untrue. 

Leave to pursuers }nerciiess 

A ivom in in her last distress. — P. 284. 

This incident, which illustrates so happily 
the chivalrous generosity of Bruce's character, 
is one of the many simple and natural traits 
recorded by Barbour It occurred during the 
expedition v\hich Bruce made to Ireland, to 
support the pretensions of his brother Edward 
to the throne of that kingdom. 






' 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



649 -- 




Note 32. 

D'er chasms he pass' d, where fractures wide 
CruVi'divary eye and ample stride. — P. 287. 

The interior of the island of Arran abounds 
with beautiful Highland scenery. The hills, 
being very rocky and precipitous, afford some 
cataracts of great height, though of inconsider- 
able breadth. There is one pass over the river 
Machrai, renowned for the dilemma of a poor 
woman, who, being tempted by the narrowness 
of the ravine to step across, succeeded in mak- 
ing the first movement, but took fright when it 
became necessary to move the other foot, and 
remained in a posture equally ludicrous and 
dangerous, until some chance passenger as- 
sisted her to extricate herself. It is said she 
remained there some hours. 

Note 33. 

Old Brodick's gothic towers were seen ; 

From Hastings, late their English Lord, 

Douglas had won them by the sword. — 

P. 287. 

Brodick or Brathwick Castle, in the Isle of 
Arran, is an ancient fortress, near an open 
roadstead called Brodick-Bay, and not far dis- 
tant from a tolerable harbor, closed in by the 
Island of Lamlash. This important place had 
been assailed a short time before Bruce's ar- 
rival in the island. James Lord Douglas, who 
accompanied Bruce to his retreat in Rachrine, 
seems, in the spring of 1306, to have tired of 
his abode there, and set out accordingly, in the 
phrase of the times, to see what adventure God 
would send him. Sir Robert Boyd accompanied 
him ; and his knowledge of the localities of 
Arran appears to have directed his course 
thither. They landed in the island privately, 
and appear to have laid an ambush for .Sir John 
Hastings, the English governor of Brodwick, 
and surprised a considerable supply of arms 
and provisions, and nearly took tlie castle it- 
self. Ind«ed, that they actually did so, has 
been generally averred by historians, although 
it does not appear from the narrative of Bar- 
bour. On the contrary, it would seem that 
they took shelter within a fortification of 
the ancient inhabitants. . . . The castle is 
now much modernized, but has a dignified 
appearance , being surrounded by flourishing 
ulantations. 

NoTK 34. 
Oft, too, with Jinaccustomed ears, 
A language much ufuneei he hears. — 

P. 287. 
Barbour, with great simplicity, gives an an- 
ecdote, from which it would seem that the vice 
of profane swearing, afterwards too general 
among the Scottish nation, was, at this time, 
confined to military men. As Douglas, after 
Bruce's retum to .Scotland, was rov'ing about 
the mountainous country of Tweeddate, near 



•^-f- 



the water of Line, he chanced to hear some 
persons in a farm-house say, '■^ the devil.'" 
Concluding, from this hardy expression, that 
the house contained warlike guests, he imme- 
diately assailed it, and had the good fortune 
to make prisoners Thomas Randolph, after- 
wards the famous Earl of Murrav, and Alex- 
ander Stuart, Lord Bonkle. Both were then 
ni the English interest, and had come into 
that country with the purpose of driving out 
Douglas. They afterwards ranked among 
Bruce's most zealous adherents. 

Note 35. 

Now ask you whence that wondrous light. 

Whose fairy glow beguiled their sight ! 

It ne'er ivas known. — P. 289, 

The following are the words of an ingenious 
correspondent, to whom I am obliged for much 
mformation respecting Turnberry and its neigh- 
borhood. "The only tradition now remem- 
bered of the landing of Robert the Bruce in 
Carrick, relates to the fire seen by him from 
the Isle of Arran. It is still generally reported, 
and religiously believed by many, that this fire 
was really the work of supernatural power, 
unassisted by the hand of any mortal being ; 
and it is said, that, for several centuries, the 
flame rose yearly, on the same hour of the same 
night of the year, on which the king first saw 
it from the turrets of Brodick Castle ; and 
some go so far as to say, that if the exact time 
were known, it would be still seen. That this 
superstitious notion is very ancient, is evident 
from the place where the fire is said to have 
appeared being called the Bogles' Brae, be- 
yond the remembrance of man. In support of 
this curious belief, it is said that the practice of 
burning heath for the improvement of land was 
then unknown ; that a spunkie (Jack o'lan- 
thorn) could not have been seen across the 
breadth of the Forth of Clyde, between Ayr- 
shire and Arran ; and that the courier of Bruce 
was his kinsman, and never suspected oi 
treachery."— Letter from Mr. Joseph Train, ot 
Newton Stewart. 

Note 36. 
The Brtice hath won his father's hall .'— 
P. 293 

I have followed the flattering and pleasing 
tradition, that the Bruce, after his descent upon 
the coast of Ayrshire, actually gained posses- 
sion of his .Tiaternal castle. But the tradition 
is not accurate. The fact is, that he was only 
strong enough to alarm and drive in the oui 
posts of the English garrison, then commandet' 
not by Clifford, as assumed in the text, but b'^ 
Percy. Neither was Clifford slain ujxjn thi'= 
occasion, though he had several skirmishes 
with Bruce. He fell afterwards in the battle 
of Bannockburn. Bruce, after alarming the 
castle of Turnberry, and surprising some part 
of the garrison, who were auarteVed withou- 





650 



APPENDIX. 



the walls of the fortress, retreated into the 
mountainous part of Carrick. and there made 
himself so strong, that the English were obliged 
to evacuate Turnberry, and at length the 
Castle of Ayr. Many of his benefactions and 
royal gifts attest his attachment to tlie here- 
ditary followers of his house, in this part of the 
country. 

Note 37. 
When Bruce' s banner had victorious flow'' d^ 
O'er Loudoun's mountain, and in Ury's vale- 

P. 294. 
The first important advantage gained by 
Bruce, after landing at Turnberry, was over 
Ayrner de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, the 
same by whom he had been defeated near 
Methven. They met, as has been said, by 
appointment, at Loudonhill, in the west of 
Scotland. Pembroke sustained a defeat ; and 
from that time Bruce was at the head of a 
considerable flying army. Yet he was subse- 
quently obliged to retreat into Aberdeenshire, 
and was there assailed by Comyn, Earl of 
Buchan, desirous to avenge the death of his 
relative, the Red Comyn, and supported by a 
body of English troops under Philip de Mow- 
bray. Bruce was ill at the time of a scro- 
fulous disorder, but took horse to meet his 
enemies, although obliged to be supported on 
either side. He was victorious, and it is said 
that the agitation of his spirits restored his 
health. 

Note 38. 
When English Hood oft deluged Douglas-daie- 

P. 294 

The "good Lord James of Douglas," during 
these commotions, often took from the English 
his own castle of Douglas, but being unable to 
garrison it, contented himself with destroying 
the fortiftcations, and retiring into the moun- 
tains. As a reward to his patriotism, it is said 
to have been prophesied, that how often soever 
Douglas _Castle should be destroyed, it should 
always again rise more magnificent from its 
rums. Upon one of these occasions he used 
fearful cruelty, causing all the store of provi- 
sions, which the English had laid up in his 
castle, to be heaped together, bursting the 
wine and beer casks among the wheal and 
flour, slaughtering the cattle upon the same 
spot, and upon the top of the whole cutting 
the throats of the English prisoners. This 
pleasantry of the "good Lord James" is com- 
memorated under the name of the Douglas' 
Larder. 

Note 39. 

Atidflery Edward roided stout St. John.— 
P. 294. 

"John de St- John, with 15,000 horsemen, 
had advanced to oppose the inroad of the 
Scots. By a forced march he endeavored to 
surprise them, but intelligei^ce of his motions 



was timeously received. The courage of Ed- 
ward Bruce, approaching to temerity, fre- 
quently enabled him to achieve what men of 
more judicious valor would never have at- 
tempted. He ordered the infantry, and the 
meaner sort of his army, to entrench them- 
selves m strong narrow ground. He himself, 
with fifty horsemen well harnessed, issued forth 
under cover of a thick mist, surprised the Eng- 
lish on their march, attacked and disjjersed 
them."— D ^lrymple's A nnals 0/ Edinburgh, 
quarto, Edinburgh, 1779, p. 25. 

Note 40. 

Wheji Randolph' s 7var-cry swell' d the south- 
ern gale. — P. 294. 

Thomas Randolph, Bruce's sister's son, a re- 
nowned Scottish chief, was in the early part of 
his life not more remarkable for consistency than 
Bruce himself. He espoused his uncle's party 
when Bruce first assumed the crown, and was 
made prisoner at the fatal battle of Methven, 
in which his relative's hopes appeared to be 
ruined. Randolph accordingly not only sub- 
mitted to the English, but took an active part 
against Bruce ; appeared in arms against him : 
and in the skirmish where he was so closely 
pursued by the bloodhound, it is said his 
nephew took his standard with his own hand. 
But Randolph was afterwards made prisoner 
by Douglas in Tweeddale, and brought before 
King Robert. Some harsh language was ex- 
changed between the uncle and nephew, and 
the latter was committed for a time to close 
custody. Afterwards, however, they were re- 
conciled, and Randolph was created Earl of 
Moray about 1312. .^fter this period he emi- 
nently distinguished himself, first by the sur- 
prise of Edinburgh Castle, and afterwards by 
many similar enterprises, conducted with equal 
courage and ability. 

Note 41. 

Stirling's i07uers. 

Beleaguered by King Robert's powers ; 

And they took term 0/ truce. — P. 294. 
When a long train of success, actively im- 
proved by Robert Bruce, had made him mastei 
of almost all Scotland, Stirling Castle continued 
to hold out. The care of the blockade was 
committed by the king to his brother Edward, 
who concluded a treaty with Sir Philip Mow- 
bray, the governor, that he should surrender 
the fortress, if it were not succored by the 
King of England before St. John the Baptist's 
day. The King severely blamed his brother 
for the impolicy of a treaty, which gave lime 
to the king of England to advance to the relief 
of the castle, with all his assembled forces, and 
obliged himself either to meet them in battle 
with an inferior force, or to retreat with dis- 
honor. " Let all England come," answered 
the reckless Edward; "we will fight them 






THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



^51 



were they more." The consequence was, of 
course, tliat each kingdom mustered its strength 
for the expected battle ; and as the space 
agreed upon reached from Lent to Midsummer, 
full time was allowed for that purpose. 

Note 42. 

A nd Cambria., but of late subdued. 
Sent forth her mountain multitude- — 

P. 295. 

Edward the First, with the usual policy of a 
conqueror, employed the Welsh, whom he had 
subdued, to assist him in his Scottish wars, for 
which their habits, as mountaineers, particu- 
larly fitted them. But this policy was not with- 
out its risks. Previous to the battle of Falkirk, 
the Welsh quarrelled with the English men- 
at-arms, and after bloodshed on both parts, 
separated themselves from his army, and the 
feud between them, at so dangerous and criti- 
cal a juncture, was reconciled with difficulty. 
Edward II. followed his father's example in this 
particular, and with no better success. They 
could not be brought to exert themselves in the 
cause of their conquerors. But they had an in- 
different reward for their forbearance. With- 
out arms, and clad only in scanty dresses of 
linen cloth, they apeared naked in the eyes 
even of the Scottish peasantry ; and after the 
rout of Bannockburn, were massacred by them 
in great nunibers, as they retired in confusion 
towards their own country. They were under 
command of Sir Maurice de Berkley. 

Note 43. 

And Connos^kt four'' d from waste and wood 
Her hundred tribes, zuhose sceptre rjide 
Dark Eth O'Connor sway'd. — P. 295. 

There is in the Foedera an invitation to Eth 
O'Connor, chief of the Irish of Connaught, set- 
ting forth that the king was about to move 
against his Scottish rebels, and therefore re- 
questing the attendance of all the force he could 
muster, either commanded by himself in person, 
or by some nobleman of his race. These 
auxiliaries were to be commanded by Richard 
de Burgh, Earl of Ulster. 

Note 44. 
The monarch rode along the van. — P. 297. 

The English vanguard, commanded by the 
Earls of Gloucester and Hereford, came in sight 
of the Scottish army upon the evening of the 
23d of June. Bruce was then riding upon a 
little palfrey in front of his foremost line, put- 
ling his host in order. It was then that the 
personal encounter took place betwixt him and 
Sir Henry de Bohyii, a gallant English knight, 
the issue of which had a great effect upon the 
spirits of both armies. 



Note 45. 

Responsive from the Scottish host. 
Pipe-clang and bugle-sound were tots'" d.— 

P. 299- 
There is an old tradition, that the well-known 
Scottish tune of " Hey,tutti,taitti," was Brace's 
march at the battle of Bannockburn. The late 
Mr. Ritson, no granter of propositions, doubts 
whether the Scots had any martial music, 
quotes Fioissart's account of each soldier in the 
host bearing a little horn, on which, at the 
onset, they would make such a horrible noise, 
as if all the devils of hell had been among them. 
He observes, that these horns are the only 
music mentioned by Barbour, and concludes, 
that it must remain a moot point whether 
Bruce's army were cheered by the sound even 
of a solitary h?i%^\x>e..— Historical Essay pre- 
fixed to Ritso7is Scottish Songs. — It may be 
observed in passing, that the Scottish of this 
period certainly observed some musical cadence, 
even in winding their horns, since Bruce was at 
once recognized by his followers from his mode 
of blowing. See Note 29, p. 282. But the tra- 
dition, true or false, has been the means of 
securing to Scotland one of the finest lyrics in 
the language, the celebrated war-song of Burns, 
— " Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled." 

Note 46. 

See where yon bare-foot Abbott stands, 

A nd blesses them with lifted hands. — I'. 299. 

" Maurice, abbot of Inchaffray, placing him- 
self on an eminence, celebrated mass in sight of 
the Scottish army. He then passed along the 
front bare-footed, and bearing a crucifix in his 
hands, and exhorting the Scots, m few and 
forcible words, ti combat for their rights and 
their liberty. The Scots kneeled down. ' They 
yield,' cried Edward ; " see, they implore 
mercy.' — ' They do,' answered Ingelram de 
Umfraville, ' but not ours. On that field they 
will be victorious, or die." — Annals of Scot- 
la?id, vol. 11. p. 47. 

Note 47. 

Forth, Marshal, on the peasant foe ! 

IVe'll tame the terrors of their bow. 
And cut the boiv-string loose .'—P. 299. 

The English archers commenced the attack 
with their usual braverv and dexterity. But 
against a force, whose importance he had 
learned by fatal experience, Bruce was pro- 
vided. A small but select body of cavalry 
were detached from the right, under command 
of Sir Robert Keith. They rounded, as I con- 
ceive, the marsh called Milton bog, and, keeping 
the firm ground, charged the left tlank and rear 
of the English archers. As the bowmen had no 
spears nor long weapons fit to defend them- 
selves against horse, they were instantly tlirown 
into disorder, and spread through the whole 








652 



APPENDIX. 



English army a confusion from whicli tliey 
never fairly recovered. 

Although the success of this manoeuvre was 
evident, it is very remarkable that the Scottioh 
generals do not appear to have profited by the 
lesson. Almost every subsequent battle which 
they lost against England, was decided by the 
archers, to whom the close and compact array 
of the Scottish phalan.x afforded an exposed 
and unresisting mark. The bloody battle of 
Hahdoun-hill, fought scarce twenty years after- 
wards, was so completely gained by the archers, 
that the English are said to have lost only one 
knight, one esquire, and a few foot-soldiers. At 
the battle of Neville's Cross, in 1346, where 
David II. was defeated and made prisoner, 
John de Graham, observing the loss which the 
Scots sustained from the English bowmen, 
offered to charge and disperse them, if a hun- 
dred men-at-arms were put under his command. 
" But, to confess the truth," says Fordun, " he 
could not procure a single horseman for the 
service proposed." Of such little use is ex- 
perience in war, where its results are opposed 
by habit or prejudice. 

Note 48. 

Each braggart churl could boast be/ore, 

Ttuelve Scottish lives his baldric bore ! 

— P. 300. 

Roger Ascham quotes a similar Scottish prov- 
erb, "whereby they give the whole praise of 
shooting honestly to Englishmen, saying thus, 
' that every English archer beareth under his 
girdle twenty-four Scottes.' Indeed Toxophi- 
lus says before, and truly of the Scottish nation, 
' The Scottes surely be good men of warre in 
theyre owne feates as can be ; but as for shoot- 
inge, they can neither use it to any profite, nor 
yet challenge it for any praise.'" — Works 
of Ascham, edited by Bennei , 4to, p. no. 

It is said, I trust incorrectly, by an ancient 
English historian, that the " good Lord James 
of Douglas " dreaded the superiority of the Eng- 
lish archers so much, that when he made any 
of them prisoner, he gave him the option of 
losing the forefinger of his right hand, or his 
right eye, either species of mutilation rendering 
him incapable to use the bow. I have mislaid 
the reference to this singular passage. 
Note 49. 

Down ! dflivn ! iu headlong OTerthrozv, 

Horseman and horse, the foremost go. — 

P. 300. 

It IS generally alleged hy historians, that the 
English men-at-arms fell into the hidden snare 
which Bruce had prepared for them. Barbour 
does not mention the circumstance. According 
to his account, Randolph, seeing the slaughter 
made by the cavalry on the right wing among 
the archers, advanced courageously against the 
main body of the English, and entered into 
close combat with them. Douglas and Stuart, 
who commanded the Scottish centre, led their 
division also to the charge, and the battle, be- 



coming general along the whole line, was 
obstinately maintained on both sides for a long 
space of time ; the Scottish archers doing great 
execution among the English men-at-arms, 
after the bowmen of England were dispersed. 
Note 50. 

And steeds that shriek in agony. — P. 300. 

I have been told that this line requires an ex- 
planatory note ; and, indeed, those who witness 
the silent patience with which horses submit to 
the most cruel usage, may be permitted to 
doubt, that in moments of sudden and intoler- 
able anguish, they utter a most melancholy 
cry. Lord Erskine, in a speech made in the 
House of Lords, upon a bill for enforcing 
humanity towards animals, noticed this remark- 
able fact, in language which I will not mutilate 
by attempting to repeat it. It was my fortune, 
upon one occasion, to hear a horse, in a 
moment of agony, utter a thrilling scream, 
which I still consider the most melancholy 
sound I ever heard. 

Note 51. 

Lord 0/ the Isles, my trust tn thee 
Is firm as A ilsa Rock ; 

Rush oil -with H igldcind siuord and targe, 

I with my Carrick spcarme?! charge. — 

P. 301. 

When the engagement between the main 
bodies had lasted some time, Bruce made a 
decisive movement by bringing up the Scottish 
reserve. It is traditionally said, that at this 
crisis, he addressed the Lord of the Isles in 
a phrase used as a motto by some of his de- 
scendants, " My trust is constant in thee." 
Barbour intimates that the reserve " assembled 
on one field," that is, on the same line with 
the Scottish forces already engaged, which 
leads Lord Hailes to conjecture that the Scottish 
ranks must have been much thinned by slaugh- 
ter, since, in that circumscribed ground, there 
was room for the reserve to fall into the line. 
But the advance of the Scottish cavalry must 
have contributed a good deal to form the vacancy 
occupied by the reserve. 

Note 52. 

To arms they flew, — axe, chib, or spear, — 

And mimic ensigns high they rear. — P. 302. 

The followers of the Scottish camp observed, 
from the Gillies'- Hill in the rear, the impression 
produced upon the English army by the bring- 
ing up of the Scottish reserve, and prompted 
by the enthusiasm of the moment, or the desire 
of plunder, assumed, in a tumultuary manner, 
such arms as they found nearest, fastened 
sheets to tent-poles and lances, and showed 
themselves like a new army advancing to 
battle. 

The unexpected apparition, of what seemed 
a new army, completed the confusion which 
already prevailed among the English, who fled 
in every direction, and were pursued with 
immense slaughter. 







THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 



653 



THE FIELD OF WATERLOO- 



Note i. 

The peasant, at his labor blithe , 
Plits the hooSid staff ami shortened scythe. 
-P. 305. 

The reaper in Flanders carries in his left 
hand a stick with an iron hook, with. which he 
collects as much grain as he can cut at one 
sweep with a short scythe, which he holds in 
his right hand. They carry on this double 
process with great spirit and dexterity. 

Note 2. 

Pale Brussels', then what thoztghis were thine. 

P. 306. 

It was affirmed by the prisoners of war, that 
Bonaparte had promised his army, in case of 
victory, twenty-four hours' plunder of the city 
of Brussels. 

Note 3. 

" Ott ! On ! " was still his stern exclaim. — 
P. 306. 

The characteristic obstinacy of Napoleon 
was never more fully displayed than in what 
we may be permitted to hope will prove the 
last of his fields. He would listen to no ad- 
vice, and allow of no obstacles. An eye-witness 
has given the following account of his demean- 
or towards the end of the action : — • 

" It was near seven o'clock ; Bonaparte, who 
till then had remained upon the ridge of the 
hill whence he could best behold what passed, 
contemplated with a stern countenance the 
scene of this horrible slaughter. The more 
that obstacles seemed to multiply, the more 
his obstinacy seemed to increase. He became 
indignant at these unforeseen difficulties ; and, 
far from fearing to push to extremities an army 
whose confidence in him was boundless, he 
ceased not to pour down fresh troops, and to 
give orders to marcli forward — to charge with 
the bayonet — to carry by storm. He was re- 
peatedly informed, from different points, that 
the day went against him, and that the troops 
seemed to be disordered ; to which he only 
replied, — ' Eji avant ! Ett ava?it ! ' 

'■ One general sent to inform the Emperor 
that he was in a position which he could not 
maintain, because it was commanded by a bat- 
tery, and requested to know, at the same time, 
in what way he should protect his division 
from the murderous fire of the English artil- 
lery. ' Let him storm the battery,' replied 
Bonaparte, and turned his back on the aide-de- 
camp who brought the message." — Relation 
de la Bataille de Mont-St.-Jean. Par un 
Thnoin Oculaire. Paris, 1815, 8vo, p. 51. 



Note 4. 

The fate their leader shuiiii'd to share-- 

P. 306 

It has been reported that Bonaparte charged 
at the head of his guards, at the last period of 
this dreadful conflict. This, however, is not 
accurate. He came down indeed to a hollow 
part of the h.igh road, leading to Charleroi, 
within less than a quarter of a mile of the farm 
of La Haye Sainte, one of the points most 
fiercely disputed. Here he harangued the 
guards, and informed them that his preceding 
operations had destroyed the British infantry 
and cavalry, and that they had only to support 
the fire of the artillerj', which they were to at- 
tack with the bayonet. This exhortation was 
received with shouts of Vive V Etnperejtr, 
which were heard over all our line, and led to 
an idea that Napoleon was charging in person. 
But the guards were led on by Ney ; nor did 
Bonaparte approach nearer the scene of action 
than the spot already mentioned, which the 
rising banks on each side rendered secure from 
all such balls as did not come in a straight line. 
He witnessed the earlier part of the battle from 
places yet more remote, particularly from an 
observatory which had been placed there by 
he King of the Netherlands, some weeks be- 
ore, for the purpose of surveying the country.* 
It is not meant to infer from these particulars 
that Napoleon showed, on that memorable 
occasion, the least deficiency in personal cour- 
age ; on the contrary, he evinced the greatest 
composure and presence of mind during the 
whole action. But it is no less true that report 
has erred in ascribing to him any desperate 
efforts of valor for recovery of the tattle ; and 
it is remarkable, that during the whole carnage, 
none of his suite were either killed or wounded, 
whereas scarcely one of the Duke of Welling 
ton's personal attendants escaped unhurt. 

Note 5. 
England shall tell the fight.— V. 306. 

In riding up to a regiment which was hard' 
pressed,! the Duke called to the men, " Sol-, 
diers, we must never be beat, — what will they 
say in England?" It is needless to say how 
this appeal was answered. 

* The mistakes concerning this observatory 
have been mutual. The English supposed it 
was erected for the use of Bonaparte ; and a 
French writer affirms it was constructed by the 
Duke of Wellington. 

t The gjth. The Duke's words were — 
" Stand fast, 95th — what will they say in Eng- 
I land ? " 





«-+- 




654 



APPENDIX. 



Note 6. 

A s plies the stnith his clanging trade. — P. 307' 

A private soldier of the 95th regiment com- 
pared the sound which took place immediately 
upon the British cavalry mingling with those 
of the enemy, to " a thousand tinkers at work 
mending pots and kettles.'" 

Note 7. 

The British shock of levelV d steel.— V . 307. 

No persuasion or authority could prevail upon 
the French troops to stand the shock of the 
bayonet- The Imperial Guards, in particular, 
hardly stood till the British were within thirty 
yards of them, although the French author, 
already quoted, has put into their mouths the 
magnanimous sentiment, " The Guards never 
yield — they die." The same author has covered 
the plateau, or eminence, of St. Jean, which 
formed the British position, with redoubts and 
retrenchments which never had an existence. 
As the narrative, which is in many respects 
curious, was written by an eye-witness, he was 
probably deceived by the appearance of a road 
and ditch which run along part of the hill. Ic 
may be also mentioned, in criticizing this work, 
that the writer mentions the Chateau of Hougo- 
mont to have been carried by the French, al- 
though it was resolutely and successfully de- 
fended during the whole action. The enemy, 
indeed, possessed themselves of the wood by 
which it is surrounded, and at length set fire to 
the house itself ; but the British (a detachment 
of tlie Guards, under the command of Colonel 
Macdonnell, and afterwards of Colonel Home) 
made good the garden, and thus preserved, by 
their desperate resistance, the post which 
covered the return of the Duke of Wellington's 
right flank. 



Note 8. 

What bright careers 'twas thine to close.— 

P. 309. 

Sir Thomas Picton, Sir William Ponsonby, 

Sir William de Lancy, and numberless gallant 

officers. 

Note 9. 
Laurels /rom the hand 0/ Death. — P. 309, 

Colonel Sir William de Lancy had married 
the beautiful Miss Hall only two months be- 
fore the Battle of Waterloo. 

Note 10. 

Gallant Miller'' s /ailing eye . — P. 309- 

Colonel Miller of the Guards, when lying 
mortally wounded in the attack on the Bois de 
Bossa, desired to see once more the colors of 
his regiment. They were waved about his head, 
and he died declaring that he was satisfied. 

Note ii, 

A nd Cameron, in the shock of steel-— P. 300. 

Colonel Cameron fell at Quatre Bras, head- 
ing a charge of the gzd Highlanders. 

Note 12. 

And generous Gordon. — P. 309. 

" Generous Gordon " — brother to the Earl ot 
Aberdeen — who fell by the side of the Duke in 
the heat of the action. 

Note 13. 

Fair Hougotnont. — P. 309. 

" Hougoniont " — a chateau with a garden 
and wood round it. A post of great import- 
ance, valiantly held by the Guards during the 
battle. 



GLENFINLAS. 



Note i. 

How blazed Lord Ronald'' s beltane-tree. — 
P- 343- 

The fires lighted by the Highlanders on the 
tst of May, in compliance with the custom de- 
rived from the Pagan times, are termed The 
Beltane-tree. It is a festival celebrated with 
various superstitious riies, both in the north of 
Scotland %nd in Wales. 



Note 2. 

The seer" s prophetic spirit found. — P. 343. 

I can only describe the second sight, by 
adopting Dr. Johnson's definition, who calls it 
" An impression, either by the mind upon the 
eye, or by the eye upon the mind, by which 
things distant and future are perceived and seen 
as if they were present." To which I would 
only add, 'hat the spectral appearances, thus 



H. 





THE ErE OE ST. JOHN. 



presented, usually presage misfortune ; that 
the faculty is painful to those who suppose 
they possess it ; and that they usually acquire 
it while themselves under the pressure of 
melancholy. 

Note %. 

Will good Si. Oran's rule prevail. — P. 344. 

St. Oran was a friend and follower of St. 
Columba, and was buried at Icolmkill. His 
pretensions to be a saint were rather dubious. 
According to the legend, he consented to be 
buried alive, in order to propitiate certain 
demons of the soil, who obstructed the at- 
tempts of Columba to build a chapel. Columba 
caused the body of his friend to be dug up, 
after three days had elapsed ; when Oran, to 
the horror and scandal of the assistants, de- 
clared that there was neither a God, a judg- 
ment, nor a future state! He had no time to 
make further discoveries, for Columba caused 
the earth once more to be shovelled over him 
with the utmost despatch. The chapel, how- 
ever, and the cemetery, was called Relig 
Ouran ; and, in memory of his rigid celibacy, 
no female was admitted to pay her devotions, 
or be buried in that place. This is the rule 
alluded to in the poem. 

Note 4. 
And thrice St. Fillaii^ s powerful prayer.-' 

P. 345. 
St. Fillan has given his name to niary 
chapels, holy fountains, &c., in Scotland, He 
was, according to Camerarius, an Abbot of 
Pittenweem, in Fife; from which situation he 
retired, and died a hermit in the wilds of Glen- 
urchy, A. D. 649. While engaged in transcrib- 
ing the Scriptures, his left hand was observed 
to send forth such a splendor, as to afford 



light to that with which he wrote ; a miracle 
which saved many candles to the convent, as 
St. Fillan used to spend whole nights in that 
exercise. The 9th of January was dedicated 
to this saint, who gave his name to Kilfillan, in 
Renfrew, and St. Phiians, or Forgend, in Fife. 
Lesley, lib. 7, tells us, that Robert the Bruce 
was po^sessed of f ulan's miraculous and lumui- 
cus arm, which he enclosed in a silver shrine, 
and had it carried at the head of his army. 
Previous to the battle of Bannockburn, liie 
king's chaplain, a man of little faith, abstracted 
the relic, and deposited it in a place of security, 
lest it should fall into the hands of the English. 
But, lo! while Robert was addressing his 
prayers to the empty casket, it was observed to 
open and shut suddenly ; and, on inspection, 
the saint was found to have himself deposited 
his arm in the shrine as an assurance of victory. 
Such is the tale of Lesley. But though Bruce 
little needed that the arm of St. Fillan should 
assist his own, he dedicated to him, in grati- 
tude, a priory at Killm, upon Loch Tay. 

In the Scots Magazine for July, jSo2, there 
is a copy of a very curious crown grant, dated 
nth July, 14S7, by which James III. confirms, 
to Malice Doire, an inhabitant of Strathfillan, 
in Perthshire, the peaceable exercise and en- 
joyment of a relic of St. Fillan, being appar- 
ently the head of a pastoral staff called the 
Quegrich, which he and his predecessors are 
said to have possessed since the days of Robert 
Bruce. As the Quegrich was used to cure 
diseases, this document is probably the most 
ancient patent ever granted for a quack medi- 
cine. The ingenious correspondent, by whom 
it is furnished, farther observes, that additional 
particulars, concerning St. Fillan, are to be 
found in Bellenden's Boece, Book 4, folio 
ccxiii., and in Pennant's Tour in Scotland. 
1772. pp. iij 15- 




THE EVE OF ST. JOHN. 



Note i. 

battle of ancram moor. — p. 346. 

Lord Evers, and Sir Brian Latoun, during 
the year 1544, committed the most dreadful 
ravages upon the Scottish frontiers, compelling 
most of the inhabitants, and especially the men 
of Liddesdale, to take assurance under the 
King of England. Upon the 17th November, 
in that year, the sum total of their depreda- 
tions stood thus, in the bloody ledger of Lord 
Evers ; — 



Towns, towers, barnekynes, paryshe churches. 
bastill liouses, burned and destroyed, 192 

Scots slain 403 

Prisoners taken . . . , 816 

Nolt (cattle) 10,386 

Shepe . . . . 12,492 

Nags and geldings .... 1296 

Gayt 200 

Bolls of com ..... 850 
Insight gear, &c. (furniture), an incalculable 
quantity. 

Murdin's State Papers, vol- i. D. 51. 




656 




APPENDIX 




For these services Sir Ralph Evers was made 
a Lord of Parh.iment. See a strain of exult- 
ing congratulation upon his promotion poured 
forth by some contemporary minstrel, in vol. i. 
p. 417. 

The King of England had promised to these 
two barons a feudal grant of the country, which 
they lad thus reduced to a desert ; upon hear- 
ing 'vhich, Archibald Douglas, the seventh 
earl of Angus, is said to have sworn to write 
the deed of investiture upon their skins, with 
sharp pens and bloody ink, in resentment for 
their having defaced the tombs of his ancestors 
at Melrose. — Godscroft. In 1545, Lord Evers 
and Latoun again entered Scotland, with an 
army consisting of 3000 mercenaries, 1500 Eng- 
lish Borderers, and 700 assured Scottish men, 
cliiefiy Armstrongs, TurnbuUs, and other 
broken clans. In this second incursion, the 
English generals even exceeded their former 
cruelty. Evers burned the tower of Broom- 
house, with its lady (a noble and aged woman, 
says Lesley), and her whole family. The 
English penetrated as far as Melrose, which 
they had destroyed last year, and which they 
now again pillaged. As they returned towards 
Jedburgh, they were followed by Angus at the 
head uf 1000 horse, who was shortly after 
joined by the famous Norman Leslie, with a 
body of Fife men. The English being proba- 
bly unwilling to cross the Teviot while the 
Scots hung upon their rear, halted upon Ancram 
Moor, above the village of that name ; and the 
Scottish general was deliberating whether to 
advance or retire, when Sir Walter Scott * of 
Buccleuch came up at full speed with a small 
but chosen body of his retainers, the rest of 
whom were near at hand. By the advice of 
this experienced warrior (to whose conduct 
Pitscottie and Buchanan ascribe the success of 
the engagement), Angus withdrew from the 
height which he occupied, and drew up his 
forces behind it, upon apiece of low flat ground 
called Panier-heugh, or Paniel-heugh. The 
spare horses being sent to an eminence in their 
rear, appeared to the English to be the main 
body of the Scots in the act of flight. Under 
this persuasion, Evers and Latoun hurried pie- 

* The Editor has found no instance upon le- 
cord of this family having taken assurance with 
England. Hence, they usually suffered dread- 
fully from the English forays. In August, 
1544 (the year preceding the battle), the whole 
lands belonging to Buccleuch, in West Teviot- 
dale, were harned by Evers ; the outworks, or 
barmkin, of the tower of Branxholm burned , 
eight Scots slain, thirty made prisoners, and 
an immense prey of horses, cattle, and sheep 
carried ofi. The lands upon Kale Water, be- 
longing to the same chieftain, were also plun- 
dered, and much spoil obtained ; 30 Scots 
slain, and the Moss Tower (a fortress near Esk- 
ford) sniokd verey sore. Thus Buccleuch had 
a long account to settle at Ancram Moor. — 
Murdin's State Papers, pp. 45, 46. 



cipitately forward, and having ascended the 
hill, which their foes had abandoned, were no 
less dismayed than astonished to find the 
phalanx of Scottish spearmen drawn up in firm 
array upon the fiat ground below. The Scots, 
m their turn became the assailants. A heron, 
roused from the marshes by the tumult, soaretl 
away betwixt the encountering armies : " O ! " 
exclaimed Angus, "that I had here my white 
goss-hawk, that we might all yoke at once!" 
— Godscroft. The English breathless and fa- 
tigued, having the setting sun and wind full in 
their faces, were unable to withstand the reso- 
lute and desperate charge of the Scottish 
lances. No sooner had they begun to waver, 
than their own allies, the assured Borderers, 
who had been waiting the event, threw aside 
their red crosses, and joining their country- 
men, made a most merciless slaughter among 
the English fugitives, the pursuers calling upon 
each other to "remember Broomhouse ! " — 
Lesley, p. 478. 

In the battle fell Lord Evers, and his son, 
together with Sir Brian Latoun, and 800 Eng- 
lishmen, many of whom were persons of rank. 
A thousand prisoners were taken. Among 
these was a patriotic alderman of London, Read 
by name, who, having contumaciously refused 
to pay his portion of a benevolence, demanded 
from the city by Henry VIII., was sent by 
roj'al authority to serve against the Scots. 
These, at settling his ransom, he found still 
more exorbitant in their exactions than the 
monarch. — Redpath's Border History, p.563- 

Evers was much regretted by King Henry, 
who swore to avenge his death upon Angus, 
against whom he conceived himself to have par- 
ticular grounds of resentment, on account of 
favors received by the earl at his hands. The 
answer of Angus was worthy of a Douglas : "Is 
our brother-in-law offended," t said he "that 
L as a good Scotsman, have avenged my 
ravaged country, and the defaced tombs of my 
ancestors, upon Ralph Evers? They were 
better men than he, and 1 was bound to do no 
less. And will he take my life for that ? Little 
knows King Henry the skirts of Kirnetable % 
I can keep myself there against all his English 
host." — Godscroft. 

Such was the noted battle of Ancram Moor, 
The spot on which it was fought, is called 
Lilyard's Edge, from an Amazonian Scottish 
woman of that name, who is reported, by tra- 
dition, to have distingu.shed herself in the 
same manner as Squire Witherington § The 
old people point out her monument, now broken 
and defaced. The inscription is said to have 
been legible within this century, and to have 
run thus . 



t Angus had married the widow of James 
IV., sister to King Henry VIII. 

X Kirnetable, now called Cairntable, is a 
mountainous tract at the head of Douglasda 

§ See Chevy Chase. 





CADVOl^V CASTLE. 



657 



" Fair maiden Lylhard lies under this stane, 

Little was her stature, but great was her fame; 
Upon the English louns she laid many thumps, 
And, when her legs were cutted off, she 
fought upon her stumps." 

Vide Account 0/ ike Parish of Melrose. 

It appears, from a passage in Stowe, that an 
ancestor of Lord Evers held also a grant of 
Scottish lands from a-i English monarch. " I 
have seen," says the historian, " under the 
broad-seale of the said King Edward L, a 
manor called Ketnes, in the county of Forfare, 
in Scotland, and neere the furthest part of the 
same nation northward, given to John Ure and 
his heires, ancestor to the Lord Ure that now is, 
for his service done in these partes, with market, 
&c., dated at Lanercost, the 20th day of Oc- 
tober, anno regis 34." — Stowe's Atinals, p. 
210. This grant, like that of Henry, must have 
been dangerous to the receiver. 

Note 2. 

A covering on her wrist. — P. 349. 

There is an old and well-known Irish tradi- 
tion that the bodies of certain spirits and devils 
are scorchingly hot, so that they leave upon 
anything they touch an impress as if of red-hot 
iron. It is related of one of Melancthon's re- 
lations, that a devil seized hold of her hand, 
which bore the mark of a burn to her dying 
day- The nicident in the poem is of a similar 
nature — the ghost's hands " scorch'd like a fiery 
brand," leaving a burning impress on the table 
and the lady's wrist. Another class of fiends 
are reported to be icy cold, and .to freeze the 
skin ot any one with whom they come in con- 
tact. 



CADYOW CASTLE. 



Note i. 

— sound the pryse ! — P. 351. 

Pryse. — T'»e note blown at the death of the 
games.— In Caledonia olini freguetis erat syl- 
Vestris guidcttti bos, nunc vera rarior, qui, 
r.olore candidistiino, jnbain densain et demis- 
sam, instar leonis gestat, trucidentus ac ferus 
ah Itiimano genere abhorrens, ut gucecunque 
homilies vel inanibiti -.lontreciarint, vel halitu 
perdaveri7it, ab iis inultos post dies amino 
<thstiiiueric7it. A d hoc tanta audacia huic bovi 
indita erat, ut non solum irritatiis equites 
/urenter prosterneret, sed ne tantilltim laces- 




NoTK 3. 
That nun who ne'er beholds the day. — P. 349, 

The circumstance of the nun, " who never 
saw the day," is not entirely imaginary. About 
fifty years ago, an unfortunate female wanderer 
took up her residence in a dark vault, among 
the ruins of Dryburgh Abbey, which, during 
the day, she never quitted. When night fell, 
she issued from this miserable habitation, and 
went to the house of Mr. Hahburton of New- 
mains, the Editor's great-grandfather, or to 
that of Mr. Erskine of Sheilfield, two gentle- 
men of the neighborhood. From their chanty 
she obtained such necessaries as she could be 
prevailed upon to accept. At twelve, each 
night, she lighted her candle, and returned to 
her vault, assuring her friendly neighbors, 
that, during her absence, her habitation was 
arranged by a spirit, to whom she gave the 
uncouth name of Fat lips ; describing him as a 
little man, wearing heavy iron shoes, with 
which he trampled the clay floor of the vault, 
to dispel the dam]->s. This circumstance caused 
her to be regarded, by the well-informed, with 
compassion, as deranged in her understanding ; 
and, by the vulgar, with some degree of terror. 
The cause of her adopting this e.\traordinary 
mode of life she would never explain. It was, 
however, believed to have been occasioned by 
a vow, that, during the absence of a man to 
whom she was attached, she would never look 
upon the sun. Her lover never returned. He 
fell during the civil war of 1745-6, and she never 
more would behold the light of day. 

The vault, or rather dungeon, in which this 
unfortunate woman lived and died, passes still 
by the name of the supernatural being, with 
which its gloom was tenanted by her disturbed 
imagination, and few of the neighboring peas- 
ants dared enter it by night. 



situs omnes promisctte homines corrJbus ac 
ungulis peter it ; ac caniem, qui apud nosfero- 
cissinti sunt, impetus plane conieiwzeret. Ejus 
carries cartilaginoscF, srd saporis suavissimi. 
Erat is liin per illani vastissi7nani Caledoniie 
sylvam frequens, sed hninana iiigluvie jam 
assumptus tribus. tantiim locis est reliquus. 
Strivilingii, Cumber naldite, et Kincarnice.- 
Lesl^us, Scotis Descriptio, p. 13. 

Note 2. 
Stern Claud replied. 
Lord Claud Hamilton, second son of the 
Duke of Chatelherault, and commendator of 




M3t 




658 



APPENDIX. 



the Abbey of Paisley, acted a distinguished part 
during the troubles of Queen Mary's reign, and 
remained unalterably attached to the cause of 
that unfortunate princess. He led the van of 
her army at the fatal battle of Langside, and 
was one of the commanders at the Raid of Stir- 
ling, which had so nearly givjn complete suc- 
cess to the Queen's faction. He was ancestor 
of the present Marquis of Abercorn. 

Note 3. 

Woodhousele-, — P. 351. 

This barony, stretching along the banks of 
the Esk, near Auchendinny, belonged to Qoth- 
wellliaugh, m right of his wife. The ruins of 
the mansion, from whence she was expelled 
in the brutal manner which occasioned her 
death, are still to be seen in a hollow glen 
beside the river. Popular report tenants them 
with the restless ghost of the Lady Bothwell- 
haugh ; whom, however, it confounds with Lady 
Anne Bothwell, whose Lament is so popular. 
This spectre is so tenacious of her rights, that, a 
part of the stones of the ancient edifice having 
been employed in building or repairing the pre- 
sent Woodhouselee, she has deemed it a part of 
her privilege to haunt that house also ; and, even 
of very late years, has excited considerable dis- 
turbance and terror among the domestics. This 
is a more remarkable vindication of the rights 
of ghosts as the present Woodhouslee, which 
gives his title to the Honorable Alexander 
Fraser Tytler, a senator of the College of 
Justice, IS situated on the slope of the Pent- 
land hills, distant at least four miles from her 
proper abode. She always appears in white, 
and with her child in her arms. 

Note 4, 

Drives to the leap his jaded steed.— 'P. 351. 

Birrel informs us, that Bothwellhaugh, being 
closely pursued, "after that spur and wand had 
failed him, he drew forth his dagger, and strocke 
his horse behind, whilk caused the horse to leap 
a very brode stanke [/. e. ditch], by whilk means 
he escapit, and gat away from all the rest of the 
horses." — Birrel's Diary, p. 18. 

Note 5. 

From the wiid Border' s humbled side. — P. 351. 

Murray's death took plac" shortly after an 
expedition to the Borders ; which is thus com- 
memorated by the author of his Elegy : 
" So having stablischt all things in this sort. 
To Liddisdaill again he did resort. 
Throw Ewisdail, Eskdail, and all the daills 

rode he, 
And also lay three nights in Cannabie, 
Whair na prince lay thir hundred yeiris 

before, 
Nae thief durst stir, they did him feir sa sair; 



And, that they suld na mair thair thift allege, 
Threescore and twelf he brocht of thame in 

pledge. 
Syne wardit thame, whilk maid the rest keep 

ordour j 
Then mycht the rasch-bus keep ky on the 

Border." 

Scottish Poems, ibth century, p. 232. 

Note 6. 
IVitk hackbut bent.—'P. 352. 
Hackbuckbent — Gun cock'd. The carbine, 
with which the Regent was shot, is preserved 
at Hamilton Palace. It is a brass piece^ of a 
middling length, very small in the bore, and, 
what IS rather extraordinary, appears to have 
been rifled or indented in the barrel. It had a 
matchlock, for which a modern firelock has been 
injudiciously substituted. 

Note 7. 
The wild Mac/ar lane's plaided clan. — P. 352. 
This clan of Lennox Highlanders were at- 
tached to the Regent Murray. Holinshed, 
speaking of the battle of Langside, says, "In 
this batyle the vallancie of an Heiland gentle- 
man, named Macfarlane, stood the Regent's 
part in great steede ; for, in the hottest brunte 
of the fighte, he came up with two hundred 
of hisfrieiides and countrymen, and so manfully 
gave in upon the flankes of the Queen's people, 
that he was a great cause of the disordering of 
them. This Macfarlane had been lately before, 
as I have heard, condemned to die, for some 
outrage by him committed, and obtayning par- 
don through suyte of the Countess of Murray, 
he recompensed that clemencie by this piece of 
service now at this batayle." Calderwood's 
account is less favorable to the Macfarlanes. 
He states that " Macfarlane, with his High- 
landmen, fled from the wing where they were 
set. The Lord Lindsay, who stood nearest to 
them in the Regent's battle, said, ' Let them go ! 
I shall fill their place better ; ' and so, stepping 
forward, with a company of fresh men, charged 
the enemy, whose spears were now spent, with 
long weapons, so that they were driven back 
by force, being before almost overthrown by 
the avaunt-guard and harquebusiers, and so 
were turned to flight." — Calderwood's AfS. 
apud Keith, p. So. Melville mentions the 
flight of the vanguard, but states it to have 
been commanded by Morton, and composed 
chiefly of commoners of the barony of Renfrew. 

Note 8. 
Glencairn and stout Parkltead were nigh. — 

P. 352. 
The Earl of Glencairn was a steady adherent 
of the Regent. George Douglas of Parkhead 
was a natural brother of the Earl of Morton, 
whose horse was killed by the same ball by 
which Murray fell. 






THE GRAY BROTHER. 



Note g. 

Itaggard Lindesay's iron eye. 

That saw fair Mary weep in vain. — P. 352. 

Lord Lindesay of the Byres was the most 
ferocious and brutai of the Regent's faction, 
and, as such, was employed to extort Mary's 
signature to the deed of resignation presented 
to her in J^ochleven castle. He dischaiged his 
commission with the most savage ngor ; and 
it is even said, that when the weeping captive, 
in the act of signing, averted her eyes from the 
fatal deed, he pinched her arm with the grasp 
of his iron glove. 




Note 

So close the minions crowded nigh.- P. 352. 

Not only had the Regent notice of the in- 
tended attempt upon his life, but even ot the 
very house from which it was threatened. With 
that infatuation at which men wonder, after 
such events have happened, he deemed it would 
be a sufficient precaution to ride briskly past 
the dangerous spot. But even this was pre- 
! vented by the crowd ; so that Bothwellhau^h 
' had time to take deliberate aim. — Spottis- 
wooDE, p. 233. Buchanan. 



THE GRAY BROTHER. 



Note i. 
By Musi of bugle free. — P. 354. 

The barony of Pennycuik, the property of 
Sir George Clerk, Bart., is held by a singular 
tenure ; tlie proprietor being bound to sit upon 
a large rocky fragment called the Buckstane, 
and wind three blasts of a horn, when the King 
shall come to hunt on the Borough Muir, near 
Edinburgh. Hence the family have adopted as 
their crest a demi-forester proper, winding a 
horn, with the motto, Free for a Blast. The 
beautiful mansion-house of Pennycuik is much 
admired, both on account of the architecture and 
surrounding scenery. 

Note 2. 

To A uchendinny's hazel shade. — P. 354. 

Auchendinny, situated upon the Eske below 
Pennycuik, the present residence of the in- 
genious H. Mackenzie, Esq., author of the 
Man of Feeling, <S^r. Edition 1803. 

Note 3. 
Melville's beechy grove. — P. 354. 

Melville Castle, the seat of the Right Honor- 
able Lord Melville, to whom it gives the title 
of Viscount, is delightfully situated upon the 
Eske, near Lasswade. 



Note. 4. 
Roslin's rocky glen. — P. 354. 
The ruins of Roslin Castle, the baronial res- 
idence of the ancient family of St. Clair. The 
Gothic chapel, which is still in beautiful preser- 
vation, with the romantic and woody dell in 
which they are situated, belong to the Right 
Honorable the Earl of Rossiyn, the represen- 
tative of the former Lords of Roslin. 

Note 5. 
Dalkeith, which all the Virtues love.— 'P. 354. 
The village and Castle of Dalkeith belonged 
of old to the famous Earl of Morton, but is now 
the residence of the noble family of Buccleuch. 
The park extends along the Eske, which is 
there joined by its sister stream of the same 
name. 

Note 6. 
Classic Hawthornden. — P. 354. 
Hawthornde.i, the residence of the poet 
Drummond. A house of more modern date is 
enclosed, as it were, by the ruins of the ancient 
castle, and overhangs a tremendous precipice 
upon the banks of the Eske, perforated by 
winding caves, which in former times were a 
refuge to the oppressed patriots of Scotland. 
Here Drummond received Be.i Jouson, who 
journeyed from London on foot in order tovisii 
him. 





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